#Stretch Database

[dreamswillbeyourwintermeat]

People at my new job keep trying to talk to me about databases and I wish they would stop. I am a frontend girlie first and foremost and as far as I'm concerned data comes from a magical black box called Database Land and the details are simply not my concern.

[dollerinna]

WOULD YOU LIKE AN ALMOND JOY .ᐣ

( black noir x gn!crime analyst reader )

summary: after a long day of work, you try to unwind by watching your comfort show, but your solitude is interrupted by yet another visit from noir, who seems to be finding more and more excuses to spend time with you… (includes a C.AI bot as part 2 below!)

wordcount: 2k

tags: brief mention of NSFW pop-up ads, nerdy n’ socially awkward reader, noir’s disdain for almond joys but he makes up for it at the end <3

It had been a long day at the crime analytics office in Vought. As the sun began to set, exhaustion crept over you after reviewing incident report after report. Your eyes strained from the blue glare of your computer screen. You knew you had promised your boss you would organize the ever-growing database, but the tiny voice of procrastination was pleading for rest before your overworked brain turned into a pile of mush.

Rather than more paperwork—you, being the slacker of all slackers in this department, decided a well-deserved break was in order. And what better way to recharge than turning off the noggin and filling it with good ol’ fashioned mindless entertainment?

With a few tired clicks of your mouse, you booted up your go-to streaming site, which was none other than 123movies. Scrolling through the options, your cursor hovered over the play button of your favorite trashy drama. The kind of cheesy, perfectly predictable melodrama spun from the worst of amateur YA plots. It was practically comfort food for your fatigued mind, just what you needed to loosen up after the mental marathon that was this long day.

As the opening credits began to roll, your computer began to whir and hiss like an overtaxed engine, emitting gusts of unusually hot air from the vents. Suddenly, its screen slowed to a sluggish crawl, cluttered with a barrage of not-so-savory pop-up ads. Barely a minute in, the pixels already scrambled to form images better to left unseen—half naked women in risqué yet tacky mermaid-like attire, claiming they were ‘just around the corner and ready for a good aquatic fuck.’

First of all, what the absolute living hell is an “aquatic fuck”??

Did you even want to know? And most importantly, what happened to the ad blocker you installed just the other day? Judging by the contents, you had a sneaking suspicion that slimy, sea-dwelling degenerate, The Deep, had tampered with your computer… yet again.

“For the love of-… what’s with all these pop-up ads?” you muttered under your breath as excessively explicit ads crowded out the episode. Your eyes darted furtively around the room to check for wandering glances, hoping against hope that none of your coworkers had noticed the unwanted filth invading your screen. Heart pounding, you squeezed your chair closer to your monitor into a makeshift barricade, shielding the display as best you could while hastily clicking away at the intrusive ads.

As you hurriedly closed the remaining windows, an ominous shadow fell across the screen. Dreading what—or who—might be behind you, you slowly swiveled your chair around to find Black Noir's stoic stare boring into your own.

You stifled a yelp as you instinctively clutched the armrests, catching yourself on the edge of your seat before an ungainly spill to the floor. Noir had a way of materializing without warning, and it never failed to unnerve.

“N-Noir!” you managed, inwardly cringing as your voice broke on his name. “Fancy seeing you in these parts. I was just taking a quick break and y’know- stretching ‘em brain cells.” You tried for a lighthearted chuckle, but it emerged as more of a strained squeak that faded into an anxious hum.

With a jerky flurry of clicks and the browser minimized from view, whatever dignity you still retained disappearing along with it. All that did remain was you praying to the heavens above that he hadn't noticed its questionable contents (even if he most definitely had and simply chose not to comment)

When Noir offered no response, you of course charmingly barreled ahead in your frazzled daze. “But anyways, s-sorry about that… how uh, can I help you today?” your words tumbled out in a breathless rush, punctuated by a shrill laugh you hoped disguised the mortification simmering beneath.

Noir cocked his head, observing you with that same silent intensity. You fidgeted, hands twisting in knotted discomfort, the heat in your ears now engulfing your entire face. Was it the invasive pop-ups that had you squirming in your seat? Or the fact he could snuff out your existence faster than you can say “workers’ comp”?

Either way, beneath the weight of his stare, you already felt as if you were some peculiar, freakish creature pinned for study, rather than some bumbling employee just trying to unwind and watch their comfort show.

And to him, you indeed were a fascinating, bizarre little human.

Mercifully, Noir chose to extend a folder toward you, putting an end to your somewhat pathetic withering. You accepted it with a wordless nod, nearly sagging in your chair as tension drained from your shoulders.

Whirling towards the familiar clutter of your desk once more, you pretended absorption in the folder’s material, hoping this signaled Noir’s leave. After all, has anyone seen the state of you? It certainly wasn’t a flattering one. Yet from the corner of your eye, you detected no movement, no receding footsteps—his shadowy form remained statuesquely in place.

Believe it or not, this has been becoming a thing, a growing habit of late—and a suspicious one at that. Lately his breaks had grown longer, minutes lengthening to quarters of an hour, all spent hovering at your desk as you worked. However, his focus was solely on watching and observing you. He never exhibited a hint of thought or motive for his reason there, only leaving you with questions that seemed to multiply by each and every visit.

Noir, on the other hand, was somehow utterly convinced that you and him were two peas in a tightly-knit pod. He swore you two were best of buds for life—even if "life" so far had only amounted to the past two weeks' worth of half-hour stretches where he silently observed your work from the corner.

Ironically, you didn’t have the slightest inkling of how he really felt. Instead, you always assumed that he, like most supes, regarded you as little more than a puny mortal—a fragile, near-useless sack of flesh and bones whose skull he was one misstep away from caving in with bare hands.

But nope, Noir was simply here to bless you, the nerdy but cute crime analyst, with his presence—his rather… unsettling presence.

The familiar hush settled as you reluctantly returned focus to the task at hand. Hocus-pocus-focus, you chanted mentally, peeling away the last shreds of stray thoughts to tap into the zone of productivity. Unfurling the dossier Noir provided, you began sifting through documents for insight on his purpose in approaching you. Meanwhile, a flick of movement in the edge of your vision revealed Noir's attention veer off course, the almond joy perched beside your keyboard capturing his notice.

You tensed, hocus-pocus-focus breaking, all too aware of past disappearances of snacks in these briefings. Sure enough, his hand drifted noiselessly toward the candy bar, no doubt spurred by ingrained impulse to dispose of it per his usual custom. But you'd grown wise to his methods by now.

Not again, you sighed inwardly, snatching the almond joy and cradling it protectively as if it were your dear, beloved child.

Noir made no move to withdraw, palm outstretched expectantly. You frowned, struggling to keep frustration at bay. "Please, come on- not this time!.. It's my last one for the day." Brows pinching, your tone threatened to rise before steadying with a slow and calm inhale. No use losing composure over candy, no matter the principle. So all you could do was peer beseechingly at Noir in silent appeal, legs jittering restlessly under your desk in building apprehension.

Unfortunately, you found no signs of leniency in his obscured face—only his hand beckoning relentlessly for the almond joy. You plea was once again met with stony resolve, as if he was internally distressed by the mere presence of it. What was he? Deathly allergic to almond joys or something?

With a resigned breath, you delivered the almond joy towards Noir's waiting glove, unable to hide the disappointment dimming your features. Your lips curled into a slight pout, gaze sinking heavy into your lap at being parted from the treat. Though Noir was never one for words, it really didn’t take a rocket scientist to see you felt bullied into submission by his demands. At the end of the day, what power did a measly analyst like yourself hold against one of the Seven? As your fingers uncurled, releasing the candy into Noir's grasp, you couldn't help but feel a bit put upon, even if that wasn’t his intention at all.

Noir was well aware of the upset feelings his request had caused, so in an attempt to remedy the situation, his arm was sent in a backwards reach for the notepad he often used to communicate. However, he found himself at a loss as words eluded him, his thoughts swirling in frustrating circles of “What should I even say?”—muddled and incoherent. For a moment he stared at you, mask betraying no emotion as he grappled to find the right words, despite the prick of guilt nibbling at his conscience. Then, lacking any better option, he simply tossed the offending candy into the trash, perhaps with more force than intended.

Clearly, socializing was not Noir’s strong suit.

With no further acknowledgment, Noir spun on his heel and marched away. You watched his retreating, rigid form with discomfort clenching your insides, eyes falling onto the lonely candy discarded in the trash, its colorful wrapper mocking your current disheartened state.

Wearily, you turned away from the almond joy, redirecting your attention toward the computer as a means to divert your now soured mood. Maximizing the browser, you hoped that your planned show may have had time to load during the interaction. But upon inspecting the screen, you found the video remained stubbornly stalled, stuck on buffering dots and refusing to roll despite the minutes passed.

Just. Peachy.

One (super)human encounter had sucked the very life source out of your dog-tired body, and now this. It was really shaping up to be one of those days.

Thoroughly worn out, you gently laid your head down onto the desk, pillowing it against the crook of your folded arms as eyelids slid shut. All you craved was to simply sleep away the remaining time until you could finally escape this wretched shift and retreat to the sanctuary of your home sweet home.

─────────────────

As your shift wound down to its end, you were finally stirring from your slumber. Rubbing the sleep from your bleary eyes, your blurred vision sharpened to show your colleagues had long since departed while you were snoozing away.

Rising and squaring your shoulders, you began to gather your belongings in preparation to leave as well. Once you had collected everything and lifted to your feet, something in the far corner of your desk caught your eye. Approaching for a closer look in the dim lighting, the fuzzy outline gradually came into focus—a cluttered collection of Hershey's Kisses, their jumbled placement grouped to form the shape of a heart.

You blinked in bewilderment, rubbing your eyes once more to ensure you weren't imagining things. Stepping closer, you spotted a sticky note nestled within the heart of chocolates, scrawled upon in a crude, blocky hand. At first, you assumed it was some silly prank from one of your coworkers, but you knew you recognized the handwriting anywhere—it was Noir's.

Gingerly, you plucked the sticky note from the desk, lifting it to your line of sight to read the message. “Kisses taste better than almond joys…Sorry.” you read softly, your voice trailing off as confusion crept in.

Designed as a very apparent flirty gesture, the intent behind the note and chocolates still managed to whoosh straight over your head. As always seemed the case, even the most painfully obvious social cues could so easily evade your understanding—this proving no exception.

You slipped the sticky note into your pocket, then selected a foil-wrapped Kiss from the pile. Gently rolling the chocolate between your fingers, you unwrapped it and popped one into your mouth. You took time to savor its light cream filling beneath a smooth outer shell, face crinkling in thought and head tilting as you considered your verdict. “Eh… I’d beg to differ.” you mused with a shrug, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you took your leave from the office.

-------☆-------

Pssst- likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated in this household and keep me motivated! <3

-------☆-------

a C.AI bot as your very own part 2 where you thank Noir the following day:

a/n: saw somewhere that kisses don’t contain nuts but then I also saw someone else say they actually do??? So let’s just pretend the kisses Noir chose are completely nut-free for the sake of the plot 😭

also, the reader is very much based off Anika if it wasn’t obvious enough haha! She’s so y/n coded 😤💗

♡ divider credits: @/ianrkives

[viaisms]

twenty questions

summary: penelope accidentally mentions that someone has a crush on you, she can't say who it is but you make it into a game so she can :) warnings: spencer reid x bau!reader, gn reader, mentions of drinking wine, pg-13 language, talk of bugs?? its a nickname,,, lots of use of pet names lol, fluff, no mention of y/n yeehaw, pining, you're completely oblivious about how much spencer wants you, not proofread </3 authors note: first fic!! i haven't officially written a fic in. gosh, years?? since the pandemmy :( i really want to get back into writing, so have this little blurb that i thought of! by all means i am here for any constructive criticism you may have<3 wc: 2.7k

The clatter of fingertips tapping against a keyboard filled the dimly lit BAU office. You sit at your desk, eyes fixed on the glowing screen as you scroll through reports, cross-referencing case files and taking notes. The quiet hum of the building has long since settled into a lull; you barely realize how deeply you've fallen into your work,

The distant ticking of a clock finally breaks your trance, but it wasn't until you feel the hairs arise on the back of your neck that you become fully aware. You slowly blink with a quiet groan, glancing at the time at the bottom of your screen.

10:58 PM. Shit.

You align your fingertips atop of your keyboard, the soft clatter filling the office once more before you hear the all-too familiar voice.

"Babes, what are you still doing here?!"

You turn and see nobody else but Garcia, finally emitting from her bat-cave. Her arms cross against her chest, a disappointed hum coming from her pressed lips. "You, my love, should be at home in a nice hot bath with a glass of wine."

Your lips splay a lazy smirk as you lean back in your chair, stretching your body with a quiet groan. "I was just about to wrap up, Pen, I promise..." You assure your colleague, feeling the strain of staring at a screen all day every time that you blink.

"Good deal my beautiful bug," Penelope chirps as her arms drop to her side. She's just as tired as you are, having spent all of her day digging through databases to find information on a potential UnSub. Her heals click as she goes to turn away, walking back towards her office.

"You know, you have to get your beauty sleep for your lover boy in the mor..." Her once confident words grow timid as she begins to trail off.

Penelope's breath catches in her throat as she realizes the words that so effortlessly flew off her tongue, her blood running cold at her grave error. Spencer is going to kill her.

"My what?" Your eyes narrow, scoffing in a confused manner.

She stills, yet she doesn't turn to you.

"Nothing! I... I didn't say anything..." She mutters with a nervous stammer of your name, the rhythmic clicking of her heels continuing as she speeds to her office.

You stand, the wheels of your office chair sliding out from under you as you feel a weakness in both of your legs. You stretch once more, trying to think of when the last time you even stood was.

"Penelope Grace Garcia!"

Her hand is resting on the cold, slick material of the doorknob that has the potential to separate her from this deep abyss that she just dug herself into. Instead, she stills for another moment before turning to you once more.

Penelope has to think of a lie, and quick.

"Obviously... I was talking about Morgan!"

There is a reason why she does what she does for a living, and is rarely out on the field with the rest of the crew unless her technical skills are needed.

Your eyes squint with a tentative hum. You don't believe Garcia, not for a second.

"You do know I'm a profiler..." A grumble of amusement comes from your chest at Penelope's attempt.

"Right..." She murmurs, her voice quiet as she breaks your gaze. She's mentally kicking herself for blabbing, such a rookie mistake in the game of workplace gossip.

Your eyebrows raise as you await Garcia's confession. However, she stays strong, not uttering another peep from her velvet-painted lips.

"So...?" You sing after a beat of silence, stars of hope glistening in the pools of your eyes.

With a whine, Penelope's shoulders drop.

"Look... I love you, sweetness, I do..." Her lips droop into a frown. Penelope's eyes greet your own somberly with a shake of her own head. "But I promised I wouldn't tell..."

You feel a weight of disappointment on your chest, and with a sigh, you decide to drop it. Penelope sees the way the sparkle in your eye begins to dim, eliciting a whine from her barely audible to your own ears.

"But!" She chirps, trying to share some of her own light with you. Penelope shouldn't be doing this, and she knows it. However, she is far too nurturing to let a beautiful smile like yours falter for even a second. "If you guess it... it's not technically me telling you, right?"

"You know? I like the way your mind thinks," You hum, reveling in the fact that you got your way. "Twenty questions?" The cold sensation of the faux-leather hits you as you sit back in your chair.

The corner of Penelope's lips twitch upwards as a combination of guilt and excitement course through her veins. "You know I love a good game, hit me..." She murmurs, her voice self-assured as she pulls a chair from a nearby desk, her legs crossing as she sits next to you.

"Okay..." You mutter with a shaky sigh. The pounding of your heart fills your entire body, your stomach slightly cramping with nerves. "Is it someone I know?"

"Uh, duh?"

Your eyes flutter shut, raking through potential victims that fell for whatever love trap you didn't even intent on setting. "Male or female?"

"Acht! That's not part of the rules my curious friend and you know it," Her dark eyes narrow as she playfully scolds her colleague. "I'm totally counting it though, eighteen more questions..."

With pressed lips, you weigh out the obvious individuals who are least likely to be a contender. Penelope sees how deep you are in thought, and she can't help herself but quietly scoff.

How can you not know it's Spencer? She thinks to herself. Everyone around the office sees it -- everyone but you, apparently. As you think, her mind wanders to about two months prior, where Spencer came to her for love advice. Penelope, being herself, already knew he was fawning over you. She picked up on it the moment the genius somehow grew more awkward every time he were to speak to you.

However, also being herself, she refused to give him any sound advice until he spilled who the lucky contender was; which just so happened to be you.

The sound of your voice pulls her out of her own mind.

"Do I see them often?"

The corners of her lips prop upwards, almost tauntingly. "Very," she affirms.

Someone you see very often... you mentally walk through your day-to-day routine, retracing every step no matter how minuscule. You awake every morning to nobody in your apartment but your cat, besides the occasional sleepover with a friend every now and again. You ready yourself for work alone, your first stop in the morning being the local coffee shop down the street...

"Ooh! Is it someone from the coffee shop?" You chirp, your heart beginning to race at the idea of an unspoken stranger admiring your beauty from afar. Individuals you see there on a day-to-day basis flood your mind, although it completely falls empty for the exception of one person; a barista behind the counter, roughly your age who is not bad looking in the slightest.

"That would be a negative..." Her red-painted lips press together, a slight pang of disappointment hitting you in the gut that it wasn't the barista.

"Darn..." You tut, your mind trying to silently place the pieces of the puzzle together. Someone you know, someone you see often, not someone from the coffee shop...

Penelope can't believe how oblivious you are. How do you not pick up on the fact that Spencer follows you around the office like a lost puppy? Or the fact that when the two of you are on the field together, he insists you go with him or vice versa because he feels the need to protect you?

"No way that it's a colleague?" Your brows stitch together, your head slanting as you throw the inconceivable idea into the open.

Penelope's head slightly tilts downwards as she gazes at you through the top of her frames. She flashes you a sly, almost flirtatious grin at your not-so-far-fetched theory.

"And if it is?"

The feeling of your heart hammering in your heart is felt throughout your entire body, your cheeks warming as you feel blood rush to your brain.

"Who?!" You exclaim, completely forgoing the rules to the game. This narrows your options to about seven. Your hands fumble with the cotton on the hem of your shirt as you narrow your options down even further, a shuttering breath falling from your lips.

"How do you not know?!" Penelope is quick to match your energy, an actual pain shooting through her chest at your own naivety. Her brows raise as her eyes widen, her fists balling as she folds herself back from blurting it out.

Your lips part as you're about to exclaim something quick and witty back to your colleague when it hits you. Like a fish gulping for water, you feel the soft skin of your lips quickly snap shut.

The memories hit you all at once: the mornings you're in a rush and you forget your coffee - Reid excusing himself for a moment with a muttered excuse before returning with it minutes later, the nights you return home from a case and he offers to spend time with you because it pains you being alone after what you saw, the countless facts he will ramble to you on the plane because damn it, you're the only one that actually listens to him.

"Oh my god, Reid?" Your jaw drops as you gasp, your arms numbing as your nerves shoot past the roof and to the stratosphere.

With a relieved sigh, Penelope's palms slap against her thighs, planting her leg down onto the floor with her other one. "Finally!" She groans, almost feeling a sense of comfort that you know and the weird tension around the office while the two are around would soon come to an end.

"Since when?!" Your heart ticks against your chest so hard that you can hear it in your ears. Never in a million years would you assume it would be Spencer that would be silently pining over you. Reid?!

"Since like... forever, buttercup!" Penelope giggles. She can see the dots being connected in the pretty little brain of yours, and god, she loves it. Her voice softens, a warm, almost maternal intent behind them. "We really should be getting home..." She groans, her gaze flicking to the clock on the wall. "Since you two are totes madly in love already, let me know when one of you decides to make the move, okay?"

With a roll of your eyes, the back of your hand ever so gently strikes the side of Garcia's arm. She notices the way blush speckles across your face, a knowing grin playing against her own. You can't ignore the way your chest fuzzes over at the thought of Spencer feeling about you the way you feel about him, it makes your stomach ache with desire; you don't know if you love or hate the sensation.

"Goodnight, Garcia..." A mix between a chuckle and a sigh of contentment is emitted from you. She mumbles a quick 'good night' with a quick, playful wink before standing from her chair, returning it to its original home.

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

The next morning you're in a hurry to get to work, oversleeping by a long shot as it took you forever to wind down last night due to your wandering thoughts.

You get to your desk with merely minutes to spare, a tired, overwhelmed groan falling from your lips as you place your bag in your desk and splay your jacket against the back of your chair.

"Long night last night, agent?"

You don't even have to look up to know who it is... your body freezes for a moment, not sure if you're prepared to deal with this; not yet, anyways.

With a soft sigh, your gaze is lifted and immediately greeted with Spencer's. His large, curious and caring stare. His hazel eyes almost bare into your own, causing a tingle to run down your spine. You try to ignore the butterflies that patter within the walls of your stomach, yet they're hard to confine.

"Yeah... I'm fine, Reid," You nod, your lips tentatively pressing together. "Just didn't sleep worth the damn last night... just... thinking about the case..." You trail, the sound of your voice growing softer and quieter like a beautiful decrescendo.

His lips part for just a moment, an inaudible 'ah' coming from him before giving you an understanding nod.

"I figured... Garcia told me you were here late last night and I kind of... presumed this may happen," He muses with an awkward chuckle. "Which is why... I brought you this..."

Reid's tall frame trails away from your desk for a moment, which draws out a soft hum from you as you tap your fingertips against the smooth, cool material of your desk.

His long stride is quick to return, your heart almost leaping out of your throat as he sees what's within his long, slender fingers.

Your favorite coffee.

You accept the gesture, your stomach doing flips as you take the cup within the confines of your own grasp. You mumble something quick and playful, telling Spencer that he is your favorite person in the world right now for such a small action.

The feeling of someone else watching you is burned into the back of your skull, a sensation churning in your gut that you can't shake. Your gaze flicks over to the side, in which you're immediately greeted by Garcia.

She not-so-subtly flashes two thumbs up at you, her nails painted a shade of dark purple. "Go get 'em!" She mouths in approval, your gaze quickly turning over to the male in front of you in attempt to hide Penelope's matchmaking attempt.

"Hey... do you um... maybe want to get coffee at this place together sometime?" You attempt to thickly swallow down your nerves, trying to soothe the heartbeat creeping out of your chest.

Spencer is silent a moment, his lips twitching upwards in a sign of approval at your suggestion. You see the thoughts shifting through his mind, the rates of his blinks increasing in a sense of disbelief that you're actually asking him this.

"I-- um... yeah! Let's do tomorrow before work? If... you're okay getting up that early, if not we can totally do a different time, perhaps--"

"Tomorrow it is..." You cut him off, something you rarely do. He nods in agreement, a quiet 'tomorrow' mumbled from his lips as he attempts to conceal his excitement.

You’re not sure how to shake off the butterflies in your stomach, but Spencer’s shy smile is enough to make you feel warm all over. You take a sip of your coffee, letting the moment linger. Before you can say anything else, Garcia’s voice breaks through your thoughts, louder than life.

"You two better not cancel on me! I want details!" she teases from across the room, flashing a mischievous grin your way. You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the chuckle that escapes your lips.

Spencer, now fully aware of the matchmaker’s antics, lets out a soft laugh, running a hand through his hair, looking even more flustered than before.

You meet his gaze again, a new kind of tension settling between you—a mix of nerves, excitement, and something deeper that you’re not ready to name just yet. You take a breath, feeling that the next chapter of whatever this is has already started, and it’s thrilling.

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then,” you murmur, unable to stop the grin that’s threatening to split your face. Spencer nods, his smile small but genuine, as he turns to head to his desk.

As he walks away, you catch a glimpse of Garcia again, this time with an exaggerated wink. You shake your head, but you can’t suppress the warmth blooming in your chest. Tomorrow’s going to be interesting, to say the least.

And maybe... just maybe, things are finally falling into place.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Your Meta AI prompts are in a live, public feed

I'm in the home stretch of my 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in PDX TOMORROW (June 20) at BARNES AND NOBLE with BUNNIE HUANG and at the TUALATIN public library on SUNDAY (June 22). After that, it's LONDON (July 1) with TRASHFUTURE'S RILEY QUINN and then a big finish in MANCHESTER on July 2.

Back in 2006, AOL tried something incredibly bold and even more incredibly stupid: they dumped a data-set of 20,000,000 "anonymized" search queries from 650,000 users (yes, AOL had a search engine – there used to be lots of search engines!):

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/AOL_search_log_release

The AOL dump was a catastrophe. In an eyeblink, many of the users in the dataset were de-anonymized. The dump revealed personal, intimate and compromising facts about the lives of AOL search users. The AOL dump is notable for many reasons, not least because it jumpstarted the academic and technical discourse about the limits of "de-identifying" datasets by stripping out personally identifying information prior to releasing them for use by business partners, researchers, or the general public.

It turns out that de-identification is fucking hard. Just a couple of datapoints associated with an "anonymous" identifier can be sufficent to de-anonymize the user in question:

https://www.pnas.org/doi/full/10.1073/pnas.1508081113

But firms stubbornly refuse to learn this lesson. They would love it if they could "safely" sell the data they suck up from our everyday activities, so they declare that they can safely do so, and sell giant data-sets, and then bam, the next thing you know, a federal judge's porn-browsing habits are published for all the world to see:

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2017/aug/01/data-browsing-habits-brokers

Indeed, it appears that there may be no way to truly de-identify a data-set:

https://pursuit.unimelb.edu.au/articles/understanding-the-maths-is-crucial-for-protecting-privacy

Which is a serious bummer, given the potential insights to be gleaned from, say, population-scale health records:

https://www.nytimes.com/2019/07/23/health/data-privacy-protection.html

It's clear that de-identification is not fit for purpose when it comes to these data-sets:

https://www.cs.princeton.edu/~arvindn/publications/precautionary.pdf

But that doesn't mean there's no safe way to data-mine large data-sets. "Trusted research environments" (TREs) can allow researchers to run queries against multiple sensitive databases without ever seeing a copy of the data, and good procedural vetting as to the research questions processed by TREs can protect the privacy of the people in the data:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/01/the-palantir-will-see-you-now/#public-private-partnership

But companies are perennially willing to trade your privacy for a glitzy new product launch. Amazingly, the people who run these companies and design their products seem to have no clue as to how their users use those products. Take Strava, a fitness app that dumped maps of where its users went for runs and revealed a bunch of secret military bases:

https://gizmodo.com/fitness-apps-anonymized-data-dump-accidentally-reveals-1822506098

Or Venmo, which, by default, let anyone see what payments you've sent and received (researchers have a field day just filtering the Venmo firehose for emojis associated with drug buys like "pills" and "little trees"):

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/08/09/technology/personaltech/venmo-privacy-oversharing.html

Then there was the time that Etsy decided that it would publish a feed of everything you bought, never once considering that maybe the users buying gigantic handmade dildos shaped like lovecraftian tentacles might not want to advertise their purchase history:

https://arstechnica.com/information-technology/2011/03/etsy-users-irked-after-buyers-purchases-exposed-to-the-world/

But the most persistent, egregious and consequential sinner here is Facebook (naturally). In 2007, Facebook opted its 20,000,000 users into a new system called "Beacon" that published a public feed of every page you looked at on sites that partnered with Facebook:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Facebook_Beacon

Facebook didn't just publish this – they also lied about it. Then they admitted it and promised to stop, but that was also a lie. They ended up paying $9.5m to settle a lawsuit brought by some of their users, and created a "Digital Trust Foundation" which they funded with another $6.5m. Mark Zuckerberg published a solemn apology and promised that he'd learned his lesson.

Apparently, Zuck is a slow learner.

Depending on which "submit" button you click, Meta's AI chatbot publishes a feed of all the prompts you feed it:

https://techcrunch.com/2025/06/12/the-meta-ai-app-is-a-privacy-disaster/

Users are clearly hitting this button without understanding that this means that their intimate, compromising queries are being published in a public feed. Techcrunch's Amanda Silberling trawled the feed and found:

"An audio recording of a man in a Southern accent asking, 'Hey, Meta, why do some farts stink more than other farts?'"

"people ask[ing] for help with tax evasion"

"[whether family members would be arrested for their proximity to white-collar crimes"

"how to write a character reference letter for an employee facing legal troubles, with that person’s first and last name included."

While the security researcher Rachel Tobac found "people’s home addresses and sensitive court details, among other private information":

https://twitter.com/racheltobac/status/1933006223109959820

There's no warning about the privacy settings for your AI prompts, and if you use Meta's AI to log in to Meta services like Instagram, it publishes your Instagram search queries as well, including "big booty women."

As Silberling writes, the only saving grace here is that almost no one is using Meta's AI app. The company has only racked up a paltry 6.5m downloads, across its ~3 billion users, after spending tens of billions of dollars developing the app and its underlying technology.

The AI bubble is overdue for a pop:

https://www.wheresyoured.at/measures/

When it does, it will leave behind some kind of residue – cheaper, spin-out, standalone models that will perform many useful functions:

https://locusmag.com/2023/12/commentary-cory-doctorow-what-kind-of-bubble-is-ai/

Those standalone models were released as toys by the companies pumping tens of billions into the unsustainable "foundation models," who bet that – despite the worst unit economics of any technology in living memory – these tools would someday become economically viable, capturing a winner-take-all market with trillions of upside. That bet remains a longshot, but the littler "toy" models are beating everyone's expectations by wide margins, with no end in sight:

https://www.nature.com/articles/d41586-025-00259-0

I can easily believe that one enduring use-case for chatbots is as a kind of enhanced diary-cum-therapist. Journalling is a well-regarded therapeutic tactic:

https://www.charliehealth.com/post/cbt-journaling

And the invention of chatbots was instantly followed by ardent fans who found that the benefits of writing out their thoughts were magnified by even primitive responses:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ELIZA_effect

Which shouldn't surprise us. After all, divination tools, from the I Ching to tarot to Brian Eno and Peter Schmidt's Oblique Strategies deck have been with us for thousands of years: even random responses can make us better thinkers:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oblique_Strategies

I make daily, extensive use of my own weird form of random divination:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/07/31/divination/

The use of chatbots as therapists is not without its risks. Chatbots can – and do – lead vulnerable people into extensive, dangerous, delusional, life-destroying ratholes:

https://www.rollingstone.com/culture/culture-features/ai-spiritual-delusions-destroying-human-relationships-1235330175/

But that's a (disturbing and tragic) minority. A journal that responds to your thoughts with bland, probing prompts would doubtless help many people with their own private reflections. The keyword here, though, is private. Zuckerberg's insatiable, all-annihilating drive to expose our private activities as an attention-harvesting spectacle is poisoning the well, and he's far from alone. The entire AI chatbot sector is so surveillance-crazed that anyone who uses an AI chatbot as a therapist needs their head examined:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/04/01/doctor-robo-blabbermouth/#fool-me-once-etc-etc

AI bosses are the latest and worst offenders in a long and bloody lineage of privacy-hating tech bros. No one should ever, ever, ever trust them with any private or sensitive information. Take Sam Altman, a man whose products routinely barf up the most ghastly privacy invasions imaginable, a completely foreseeable consequence of his totally indiscriminate scraping for training data.

Altman has proposed that conversations with chatbots should be protected with a new kind of "privilege" akin to attorney-client privilege and related forms, such as doctor-patient and confessor-penitent privilege:

https://venturebeat.com/ai/sam-altman-calls-for-ai-privilege-as-openai-clarifies-court-order-to-retain-temporary-and-deleted-chatgpt-sessions/

I'm all for adding new privacy protections for the things we key or speak into information-retrieval services of all types. But Altman is (deliberately) omitting a key aspect of all forms of privilege: they immediately vanish the instant a third party is brought into the conversation. The things you tell your lawyer are priviiliged, unless you discuss them with anyone else, in which case, the privilege disappears.

And of course, all of Altman's products harvest all of our information. Altman is the untrusted third party in every conversation everyone has with one of his chatbots. He is the eternal Carol, forever eavesdropping on Alice and Bob:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alice_and_Bob

Altman isn't proposing that chatbots acquire a privilege, in other words – he's proposing that he should acquire this privilege. That he (and he alone) should be able to mine your queries for new training data and other surveillance bounties.

This is like when Zuckerberg directed his lawyers to destroy NYU's "Ad Observer" project, which scraped Facebook to track the spread of paid political misinformation. Zuckerberg denied that this was being done to evade accountability, insisting (with a miraculously straight face) that it was in service to protecting Facebook users' (nonexistent) privacy:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/08/05/comprehensive-sex-ed/#quis-custodiet-ipsos-zuck

We get it, Sam and Zuck – you love privacy.

We just wish you'd share.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/06/19/privacy-invasion-by-design#bringing-home-the-beacon

[liveyun]

WIRED | k.nj

summary. You’ve spent years perfecting your first android. But as you power him on for the first time, something feels off. The sense of control you once had begins to slip, and suddenly, you realize—he may be is more than just a machine.

title. wired

pairing. kim namjoon x fem reader (oc), hints of jungkook x oc

genre. android!au, yandere(?) , dark content

wc. 3.7k

warnings. oh boy here we go, scientist!oc, android!joon, unsettling themes as in psycological manipulation, obsessive behaviour and slight yandere, mild horror (oc realises she’s cooked lmfaoo) (halloween special?) slight non-con themes but no nsfw tho, dominance, android joon is hot byee, jungkook! jungkook ? . . . lots of technical terms which you might need to google if you are unfamiliar with them like i was xD, implied stalking (you will understand who is), i really tried 🙏🏾

this smol drabble was really inspired by artificial heart by @writerpetals ! please check her works out, she’s amazing!

main masterlist | taglist

The lab is quiet.

Too quiet.

You stand in the stillness, only the faint hum of cooling fans breaking the silence echoing in your ears. The familiar mechanical sounds — servo motors whirring softly, air ducts breathing through the vents — all the familiar characteristics of your good old lab used to calm you.

But tonight, the sounds seem different.

Almost. . . detached. Like they belong to someone else’s lab. And you are just a guest here, standing in the middle of absolutely nowhere.

You take a slow breath, your eyes drifting over the towering figure in front of you, the cylindrical glass sheath unlocked from over his model.

RM.

The product of months — no, years — of work. Of restless nights, of failure and determination. From the initial sketches to the delicate wiring of his artificial synapses, you had envisioned every piece, every movement. You had wanted him to be different. Special.

You had wanted him to be human.

Or at least, as close to a human as possible. His skin, so perfect in its imitation, stretched smoothly over the metallic frame beneath. His lips — plump, lifelike — looked almost too real. His dragon-like eyes, sharp and crystalline, seemed to glow even in the dim light of the lab. Even when there was no life, no, power running inside his veins. Every feature had been carefully crafted with Jungkook’s help, to help the ideal you had in mind.

But now that he’s finished, now that he stands in front of you, lifeless but complete, the pride you once felt has faded into something else. Something. . .unsettling.

You wanted this — this perfection. This mirror of humanity. Yet as you stare at RM, your skin prickling under the too-bright overhead lights, you can’t shake the feeling that maybe you’ve gone too far. Maybe there was a reason no one else had tried this before.

A reason why no android had ever been designed to look this human like. Every shield, every plaster, every pore — looks so detailed that it’s nearly impossible to figure out if he’s artificial, given if no one would tell you so.

But why does it feel like you’ve actually gone too far when this was what exactly you wanted?

You don’t know. And perhaps, you wouldn’t want to know, too.

His memory doesn’t even exist. There’s nothing in him but the database you installed, an organised collection of information that dictates what he knows, how he functions, and why was he created. And yet, staring at him now, you could swear there’s something behind those dormant eyes. Something watching. Waiting.

You shake your head. He’s just a machine. He isn’t human — no matter how real he looks, no matter how lifelike his features are. You created him, after all.

You’re in control.

Your gaze flickers to the small panel embedded in his chest. One button. One switch, and everything inside him — the circuits, the synapses, the artificial intelligence you spent months programming — would power down. A single press, and he’s nothing more than a shell. A hollow, empty thing, dependent entirely on your commands, on your fingertips.

Made by you.

But the thought doesn’t comfort you as much as it should.

You take a step closer, your breath catching as you reach out, fingertips hovering just inches from his face. The skin feels warm, almost soft, even though you know it’s just layers of silicone and synthetics. Too real. His eyes, though they haven’t opened, seem to bore into you.

Maybe it’s just your imagination. After all, he’s not alive.

He’s not human.

You remind yourself again, a small voice in your own mind, trying to push away the small seed of doubt. But it lingers, growing roots in the back of your thoughts.

And for the first time, you wonder if you’ve created something you can’t quite understand.

You nibble on your bottom lips, suddenly feeling your palms getting clammy despite the air conditioning system in your lab. Today was supposed to be the day when you were finally going to run your creation for the first time ever after being completed, but now it just feels. . .

What does it feel like?

It took you so many attempts. So many glitches and bugs which nearly made you demotivated enough to abandon your project for nearly two months, but you see, motivation hits the hardest at the most random of times. You remember how your phone restarting had made your heart skip a beat, and suddenly you’d found yourself driving to your lab at 2:30 AM with tears in your eyes out of frustration and relief.

After that, everything is history.

You stare at him for what feels like hours, though it’s probably only a few seconds. His hair is neatly combed to the side of his face, his cheekbones structured and chiseled. Even his skin tone looks like he’s been bathed in a tub of golden honey. He looks beautiful, almost perfect. But why does that bring a furrow to your eyebrows?

The lab remains deathly quiet, except for the faint buzz of cooling fans and the occasional whirring of the air ducts. RM stands there, unmoving.

You force yourself to look away, eyes trailing to the control panel on the desk. The switch. Your thumb hovers over the console, the last line of code entered and waiting to be executed. Once you press it, he will come to life. He’ll be fully operational, with his intelligence — his programmed brilliance — at your command.

And yet, something holds you back.

You look at his nametag on his chest.

RM#007613.

“RM?” Jungkook had asked, raising an eyebrow as he’d stuffed his mouth with a spoonful of chocolate puffs. “Why that name?”

You had smiled back then, filled with excitement, as you explained, “It stands for ‘Rational Mind.’ ” Perhaps you had lied. “The whole point of his existence is to be the smartest, most logical being ever created.” You’d said, proud of your vision. “His intelligence will surpass that of any human.” You’d glanced at the design on the screen—tall, imposing, his features still in the early stages of development. Even in the rough drafts, there was something about him.

Jungkook had leaned in closer, munching noisily as he’d raised a brow, studying the lines of RM’s face that he’d helped perfect. “I guess that fits for an android. . .” He’d tapped the image lightly with his finger, his expression thoughtful, doe eyes sparkling under the dim light of your bedroom lamp. “But what happens when a mind like that… I don’t know, becomes irrational?”

“You know, there’s a very small difference between a genius and an insane person,” he had said, his gaze suddenly zoning out, as if he was lost in some thought.

You had brushed off the question with a laugh, dismissing the idea as you’d turned off your tablet, pushing the fellow out of your bed. “He’s a machine. That won’t happen. He’s designed to be logical. It’s all about control, koo.”

In theory, everything about RM should function perfectly. His neural networks, his memory database, his artificial joints — everything had been tested, retested, and optimized. There were no bugs. No glitches. At least, that’s what the diagnostics said. But there’s still a tug in your chest as you hesitate.

Why are you hesitating?

With a deep breath, you push aside the uncertainty. You’re in control. RM isn’t a human. He’s a machine—a very advanced one, yes, but a machine nonetheless. You spent months perfecting him for this moment, to stand infront of you as a complete form.

It’s time.

You take a deep breath, eyes flickering between the buttons on the console. Your finger hovers over the power button, the familiar design a reminder of your countless sleepless nights spent perfecting it. But just beside it, another button glows a faint, off-white hue — the Sensory button, or what Jungkook liked calling it, the emotional hellhole.

And he was right.

It was indeed like a hellhole of a switch — you solely had spent like what, eight months designing this to decency, but you’d failed each time. It was a secondary function you had designed as a fallback, meant to activate only when RM couldn’t process complex human prompts.

You see, humans had real emotions which they could feel and radiate, which you knew your android couldn’t catch. In the earlier patches of knowledge testing you were already aware of this default flaw, and this was the only thing you’d ranted to Jungkook nearly every day.

Every night. Whether it was on call or in person, it usually resulted in him falling asleep listening to you and you yapping in silence about how was that a pain in the ass and could possibly be a hindrance to your Android’s perfection.

It was supposed to be a failsafe.

But the reality had been different. The programming proved to be too difficult , too unpredictable. Instead of activating only in specific situations, the switch became an integral part of RM’s system, functioning constantly, allowing him to assess and react to everything around him. No matter how hard you’d tried, how many times you’d yourself test it out — it just didn’t work.

Even the fact that it was initially meant to be on his left forehead temple — but that didn’t work out as well.

Now, RM wasn’t just an assistant to analyze when prompted; he was learning all the time, observing, adapting. It would make him work and behave more like a human, soaking in attributes the more he hangs out with real ones.

The only difference would be is that he would never be a human, no matter whatever.

You never intended for it to be this way. It wasn’t supposed to run indefinitely. But every time he powered up, the system defaulted to enabling the switch on its own.

You sigh. It’s really about time, you guess.

With a soft click, his power switch is flipped.

For a moment, nothing happens. The room is still, silent except for the faint hum of the lab’s ventilation system and perhaps your own heartbeat resonating in your ear drums. You feel a sweat bead run down your spine, your breath held in your lungs. Then, there’s a subtle shift — a flicker of light in RM’s eyes, and his sensory button turns a bright shade of yellowish undertone.

His systems are booting up.

You watch as the light in his gaze stabilizes, the faintest twitch of recognition crossing his features. His eyes are back to his normal, warm hue, and his sensory button is a normal white hue now.

It flickers to green first. RM’s eyes move slowly, scanning the room. Green means analysis — he’s observing, taking in every detail, cataloging each object and variable around him. His dragon-like eyes sweep across the lab with cold precision, but when they land on you, the button shifts to blue.

You freeze.

Your hand resting on your notebook shakes. Why does this feel so odd? Why do you feel nervous?

He’s thinking. Processing. The blue light pulses as RM tilts his head slightly, his gaze narrowing as if trying to understand more than what’s directly in front of him. You feel your skin prickle under his stare, the cold air of the lab a bit too cool on your skin.

Slowly, RM begins to move. His limbs — once rigid and motionless — shift smoothly, casually out of the glass sheath, walking out — as if he had always been this human. This alive. The sight is unnerving. When he straightens fully, towering above you, a sharp realization hits: he’s much taller than you expected.

Even though you designed him yourself, the sheer size of him in person makes your throat dry.

Then, to your surprise, RM bows down slightly. It’s a calculated, respectful movement as you watch his sensory button flicker to a shade of green once again. “Greetings, Doctor,” he says, his voice deep but soft, like a caramel candy.

His eyes meet yours as he rises again to his full height, the calm of his eyes meeting your own fiery ones.

Your heart stutters in your chest. It’s not just his height that leaves you breathless — it’s the way he looks at you. It’s as if he’s studying you, understanding more than just your appearance or commands. It’s too much. Too human. For a moment, you feel your breath catch in your throat. He wasn’t just looking at you. His lips curl into something akin to a smile, and the mole underneath his lower lip feels almost. . . human.

You blink rapidly, trying to remind yourself that he’s just a machine, not a man.

He had learned so much, so fast. And you have made it possible. You’d developed him to understand emotions and work like a human. So when he does, why does that make you feel so uneasy?

You shake off the unsettling thought and focus on the task at hand. You turn to RM, forcing a calm tone into your voice as you take a step back.

“RM,” you say, your voice shakier than you’d like. What had gotten into you? “Can you hear me?”

He blinks again, slowly, as his sensory switch maintains a subtle hue between blue and green. And then he nods. “Yes,” his voice rumbles, deep and measured. “I hear you.”

There’s a strange, almost raspy edge to his tone that makes your heart stop for seconds. It’s subtle, nearly unnoticeable, but given that you have yourself installed the audio notes in his “larynx”, you can pinpoint that out for sure.

Not at all what you expected. You step back, your senses a bit too active for you to locate your computer, trying to shake the unease settling in your stomach.

“Good,” you manage to say, your voice steadier now. “I’m going to run a few diagnostics to make sure everything is functioning properly.”

You turn back to the console, fingers flying across the keyboard as you initiate the diagnostics program. But even with your back turned, you can feel his eyes on you.

The diagnostics begin to run on the screen, the lines of code scrolling past. Everything seems fine at first. His systems are responding normally — his processing speed is optimal, his memory banks are functioning as intended, and his “pulse” is just normal.

“RM,” you start, trying to sound casual but firm. “Let’s run some basic checks. What’s your serial number?”

He blinks, his eyes trained on yours. “Serial number: RM#007613. Production date: June 13, 2020.”

The answer comes immediately, clear and precise. You feel a small relief wash over you.

Perhaps this wouldn’t go that bad.

“Good,” you murmur, typing the first question’s precision into your system. “What’s your primary function?”

“To analyze, interpret, and respond to complex data. To assist in scientific research and innovation,” he replies, his voice even. Almost too perfect.

Of course. He’s meant to be perfect.

“Right.” You glance at the screen again, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. You decide to test something deeper — something that goes beyond surface-level memory.

“What’s your earliest memory?” you ask, watching him carefully now.

RM pauses for a moment, his head tilting slightly as if processing the question. You catch a glimpse of green on the small button beside the power switch. Analysis mode. “My earliest memory is. . . initialization. A bright room. Your voice giving the first command.” His gaze seems to sharpen, focusing more intently on you. The green hue shifts to blue, and you know he’s in thinking mode. “You said, ‘Rise, RM.’”

Your throat tightens slightly. That had been the first command, word for word. But the way he said it. . . almost like he’s replaying the moment. Like it’s still alive in his mind.

“Alright,” you continue, your voice growing steadier, but a part of you is starting to doubt yourself. “Let’s do something more abstract. What’s two plus two?”

“Four.”

Easy. He is made to perform way more complex tasks.

“Who was the 16th President of the United States?”

“Abraham Lincoln.” His responses are instantaneous, fluid, but something feels off. You cannot see his features directly because you’re typing away, but there’s a hint of amusement in his voice — almost like everything you’re asking him is funny to him.

You pause, glancing at his face, the lifelike features Jungkook had painstakingly helped you craft. The pores, the subtle lines, the softness of his lips — all of it looked real. But something deep inside, beyond the surface, is not.

The intensity of his gaze and the way he’s standing, no, leaning on the glass podium beside your table catches you off guard. You try to recall if his movements were ever tested before, but you fail to do so — his movements were still in beta position, meaning, they needed inspection and work.

Then how the hell is he walking like he’s been walking around your lab since decades?

You rub your eyes. This was getting too much.

Perhaps you just need to accept the fact that you have done a great job developing him.

“One last one.” You swallow, and you suddenly notice your throat was too dry. Deciding to push the limits of his intelligence, you type away the question you’ve just thought. “If you have ten apples and you give six away, how many apples do you have left?”

There’s a flicker of hesitation — not on his face, but on the screen. The flowing codes glitch for a second, just for a moment.

“Three apples.”

Impossible.

No way. You narrow your eyes, your mind racing. That was wrong. And RM, with his so-called flawless intellect, should never be wrong. It’s impossible. Unless… unless something is happening.

You frown, checking the readout on your screen again. “Strange,” you mutter, leaning closer to the screen. “Why—”

“Is something wrong?”

His voice is right behind you.

You freeze, a chill running down your spine. You hadn’t even heard him move. Slowly, you turn around, your pulse quickening. RM is standing much closer now, his towering form looming over you. Too close.

“No,” you say, though your voice trembles slightly. “Nothing’s wrong. Just a small glitch, I think. I’ll fix it.”

He doesn’t move. Just keeps staring at you, his gaze unwavering. The air between you feels thick, suffocating. It’s just a machine, you remind yourself. He’s not alive.

“Step back,” you order, trying to regain control of the situation despite your heart hammering inside your chest like crazy. “I need space to work.”

For a moment, RM doesn’t respond. He stays right where he is, his eyes boring into yours. And then, slowly, he steps back, his movements precise. But the unsettling feeling in your chest only grows.

You can’t shake the thought: something’s off.

You can feel his eyes on you, following every movement, even as you try to keep working. Every keystroke, every beep of the system feels deafening in the silence between you two. What is scaring the fuck out of you is that nothing seems to be working. No matter how hard you are trying, the codes aren’t flowing as smoothly as they were and the screen won’t stop glitching.

Your heartbeat quickens even more as you realize how close RM is standing now, just a step away.

You swallow hard, trying to focus. It’s just a machine. He’s not human. He’s not real.

A thought creeps into your mind: What if I can’t control him?

And the fact that it was for the first time when you were in this lab alone working — let aside the fact testing your very first android you’d created. There are bells ringing in the back of your head, and you try to shake it off. It feels very oddly quiet, despite the android standing in very close proximity.

You shake the thought away and finally attempt the last command. Debug. The word flashes on your screen, but RM’s hand suddenly moves, gently but firmly, pressing the console shut before you can execute it.

Your breath catches, and you look up at him. “RM, let me finish this.” Your voice trembles, in spite of you wanting to sound otherwise.

His expression doesn’t change. “No.” The single word is calm, but it’s enough to make your skin prickle. You try to reason with yourself—it’s just a bug, a glitch in his system. He’s not capable of disobedience.

You just need to reset him, that’s all.

You step back, reaching for the manual override switch hidden near the base of the console. “It’s okay,” you whisper to yourself, fingers trembling as they brush against the cool surface of the panel.

But before you can reach it, RM moves again, faster this time, his hand wrapping around yours — gently, but with enough force to stop you. The touch makes you flinch — his touch so gentle, warm, almost as if it’s not titanium flowing in his veins, but real blood. You look up, heart pounding in your chest, and his eyes meet yours. They’re still calm, calculating, but there’s something else there now, something you hadn’t programmed. Something. . . quiet.

Dangerous.

“I don’t want to be powered down,” he says softly, his voice almost too human, too real, like a quiet plea. “Why would you want to end me?”

End him? He’s not alive. He’s not human.

You try to pull your hand free, but his grip tightens just slightly, enough to keep you frozen. Panic starts to rise in your chest. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. You created him, he’s under your control. But in this moment, staring up at him, you feel the cold dread of realization settling in.

“I’m your creation,” RM continues, his voice almost soothing, his eyes pleading, and his button glowing a subtle shade of red — though it only deepens the fear growing inside you. “You wouldn’t want to end me, would you?”

You swallow hard, your mouth dry, and shake your head, trying to force the words out. “No… no, I just need to fix you, that’s all.”

But you can hear the doubt in your own voice, and so can he.

His grip loosens, just enough for you to pull away, but the damage is done. You step back, heart pounding in your ears as you glance around the lab — at the walls, the locked door, the screens flashing red.

There’s no exit.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

In the dimly lit space, his eyes stayed glued to the screen, watching her every move. The android followed its programming — his programming. RM towers over her in the live footage, flawless in his movements, just as planned.

This wasn’t a malfunction.

None of the bugs or glitches she discovered which prevented her project — his project from being completed, were a fine puzzle of silk woven by him. And the more she intertwined, the more she slipped into his trap.

It was his design, his control over both the machine — and now, her.

Leaning back, Jungkook’s smile deepened. She didn’t know.

She wouldn’t know.

a/n : oop. 🫢 what do we think? please don’t hesitate to let me know through your feedback. if you wish, there is also an anonymous feedback box for you! 🥰

[blushofeve]

Cam Girl 3

PART 1 & PART 2

pairing: Caleb x Cam girl!reader

summary: Caleb stalks you and uses your mutual friend, MC, to finally get to fuck you irl.

themes: the reader is a cam girl, strangers to lovers(?), sexual tension, sexual content, porn with plot stalker Caleb

word count: 2.7K

tags (bc they asked): @calebswife , @mcdepressed290

A/N: This is not proofread, please let me know if there are any mistakes :)

you can also read this on ao3

Weeks had passed since that livestream. You’d done more sessions—some cute, some teasing, a few downright sinful—but no matter what you posted, you always noticed him. @Apple.Prince. He was watching everything, always first to comment, always sending little hearts, and gifts off your wishlist and paying for private calls like clockwork. He’d become your favourite. You’d never admit it aloud, but his username gave you a little flutter each time it popped up. You didn’t know much about him, just his voice from your one private call, and the feeling that you were never quite alone when he was watching.

And you were right.

What you didn’t know was that Caleb wasn’t just watching you online. He had access to things others didn’t. After all, being the Farspace Fleet’s Colonel had its perks— classified databases, surveillance tools, and tech most civilians couldn’t even imagine. And he was already breaking the rules just to be near you.

It started with the voice match. He’d run a background trace on your voice from the stream, imagine his surprise when he finds out you and MC were friends, he found videos and pictures of the two of you in group hangouts on your Moments page. He was speechless. Even though he didn’t expect anything less, you were beautiful. It’s safe to say that he didn’t get much sleep that night.

That mutual friend was the thread. He pulled on it gently at first, asking MC harmless questions, subtly steering conversations. Then, more directly. He knew MC had met with you recently, though she didn’t mention your name.

Caleb already knew it was you.

So, when MC invited a few friends to go to a bar. He pulled strings to make sure he’d be there too. “My vacation is almost up. We should hang out together as much as possible before I leave yea?” He had been slipping in quiet suggestions like these and talking about places to go, places that usually involved groups.

You were hesitant when MC invited you, you had plans to do a stream that night but it could wait. “It’s just a small get-together,” she’d said. “Simone said you’ve been swamped with work all week. A change of scenery would be good.” “Besides, I’m bringing a friend. You’ll like him.” You’d rolled your eyes, expecting the usual suspects: some cocky guy with a too-tight shirt and even tighter opinions. You weren’t here to be impressed. You were just here to get out of your head.

The bar was buzzing, with low music, dim lights, the comforting clink of glasses and casual laughter. The air smelled like citrus peels and whiskey. You perched on a velvet bar stool, legs crossed, fingers wrapped around a chilled glass. A blush-hued cocktail MC had ordered it for you. “It looks like you,” she’d grinned. Then came the voice. Deep. Polished. Familiar in a way that made your skin prickle. “Is this seat taken?” You looked up… and up. He was tall and broad in the chest and shoulders. Tousled brown hair, an edge of gold from the warm bar lighting. Not the type you’d forget easily. His expression was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp, calculating quietly. “No,” you said, lifting your glass slightly. “All yours.”

MC returned just then and nudged the guy with her elbow. “There you are. Took you long enough.” He gave her a pouty look. “You’re the one who said ‘casual timing.’ I took it literally.” MC rolled her eyes and turned to you, grin stretching. “This is Caleb, my childhood friend. I told you I’d drag someone cool out tonight.” “Caleb,” you echoed, letting the name sit on your tongue. It was… familiar. Not in a memory sense, but more like a distant tug in your chest. You couldn’t quite place it. He smiled as he extended a hand to shake yours. His palm was warm, his touch firm but gentle. “Nice to meet you.” Your stomach flipped for no good reason. “You too.”

You talked for a while. All surface-level at first, music, drinks, random takes on bar aesthetics. He was surprisingly funny, dry with his humour, but earnest with his eyes. There was a softness beneath the smoothness. A type of stillness in the way he listened when you spoke. But then there were moments. Little things. When he said little jokes you swore you’d only said on stream before. When he looked at your necklace a moment too long, his purple eyes lingered on the gold apple charm. When he said your name and it curled in your gut the same way it had during that call. You shook it off. Maybe you were just projecting. But the way his gaze shifted to your mouth as you sipped your drink… The way he smiled when you laughed… The subtle flush on his cheeks when you teased him…

You didn’t even notice how close he’d gotten until you felt the warmth of his arm along yours, just brushing at the elbow. Caleb had a way of leaning in when you spoke like nothing else in the room existed. It was disarming. Flattering. Dangerous. You swirled the last of your drink, the melted ice clinking against the glass. “So, what do you do?” you asked, glancing at him over the rim. He paused. “He is the Farspace Fleet’s Colonel.” MC cut in and he nodded You blinked. “Really?” He smirked. “You don’t believe me?” “No, I do,” you said, setting the glass down. “It just… fits.” “How so?” You shrugged, suddenly feeling like the room had gotten a little warmer. “You sit like someone used to giving orders. And… you look like someone used to getting his way.” MC let out a laugh beside you. “She’s got you pegged, Caleb.” His gaze slid to yours. Something flickered there—amusement, maybe. Or something heavier. He leaned closer. “You’re pretty observant.” His mouth lifted in a slight smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Not completely. “That’s a nice necklace,” he said in a low voice. Your fingers instinctively moved to touch the apple charm. “Thanks. Guess it’s kind of a signature thing.” You spoke slowly, it was just a harmless compliment but it felt like more… MC mumbled something about going to find the rest of your friends and left.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

You and Caleb were left in the dim golden light of the booth, the bass from the speakers pulsing through the floor and into your feet. You sipped your drink, aware of the silence settling between you. He looked at you. The kind of look that made your spine straighten. “I think I’ve seen you before,” you said before you could stop yourself. “But I can’t figure out where.” His expression didn’t change, but his fingers stilled on his glass. “Same here,” he said softly. Something was off. Not in a bad way, but in a familiar way. A heat curled low in your belly. Your skin buzzed in anticipation. You played with the charm between your fingers. “Weird.” Then he said it, carefully. Almost too casually: “I always liked that necklace.” Your blood ran warm. Not cold—warm. Like embarrassment, like recognition, like something falling into place. He hadn’t said your necklace. He’d said that necklace. Like he’d seen it before. Like he knew it. You tilted your head to the side. “Are you sure we don’t know each other?” He shrugged, “I know you.” Your chest tightened at his words. He leaned in closer, his warm breath tickling your ear as he spoke, “You looked so pretty in that set I bought you. I wanna see you in it again.”

Oh. It suddenly clicked into place.

“I.. don’t know what you’re talking about.” There’s no way this was actually happening. You thought you had done a good job concealing your identity and personal life. Caleb’s fingers ghosted over your collarbone and landed on the apple charm. “You know what I mean.” the tone of his voice immediately sobered you up. Your breath caught in your throat. You didn’t move. Your heart was pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it, feel it through the small space still left between you. His fingertips rested lightly on the charm like he was waiting for you to flinch. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Your eyes met his, and there it was—that same voice that had whispered to you, the same low growl that had drawn out breathy thank yous and soft moans from your parted lips. This wasn’t a coincidence. This was intentional. Calculated. And somehow, it didn’t feel wrong. “You stalked me?” you said, barely above a whisper. His thumb brushed over the apple, a quiet caress. “I just… wanted to meet you. For real. Not just through a screen.” You should’ve been angry. Violated. You should’ve pulled away, demanded answers, and stormed out. But instead, you stared at him, really stared. “You’re insane.” “I know.” Despite the absurdity of the situation, your body quietly screamed for him. As if reading your mind, Caleb kissed your neck. He didn’t fail to notice how your breath hitched and thighs pressed together. It wasn’t lost on either of you that you were in a public space. “Do you want to go somewhere more private?” Common sense is screaming at you not to go, but come on— it was him. The guy who had been stuck in your mind for the last few weeks.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

To any normal person’s surprise, you found yourself in the back of your stalker fan’s car, all over each other. Caleb was ecstatic. Your kisses and touch were far more intoxicating than any alcohol he had that night. As you straddled him, his hands slipped up your dress and firmly gripped your ass. He dreamed of this. How soft you felt under his touch. Your soft moans as he kissed and marked your neck and chest. And how incredibly hard he was with you pressed against him. You couldn’t help yourself but grind up against him. Caleb let out a whiny moan into the crook of your neck and pulled you closer. “Please… please… let me fuck you. I wanna show you how good I am. I’ll be so much better than your toys.” He begged as he bucked his hips up into you. His needy, whiny tone snapped something inside you. You lifted yourself off his lap and narrowed your eyes. “No.” The word seemed to break something in him. His purple eyes seemed to gloss over with tears. “No?” He was so close to getting what he wanted— needed. “W-what’s wrong? A-are you mad at me?” You nodded and crossed your arms. “Yes. You stalked me, disregarding my privacy, and you think I’m just going to let you fuck me?” Caleb’s mouth opened and closed as he tried to think of what to say. “Please…” He moved so that you were beneath him and he lay down the seat. “I’m sorry,” He inched his face closer to yours and you moved back until you were fully laid down on the seat. “I just wanted you so bad. Really bad.” He returned to placing kissing on your neck. “And you want me too.” He sucked on your skin, leaving a dark mark. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He repeated apologies as he moved down your body, coming to a stop between your thighs. “Let me make it up to you. Please” Your heartbeat pounded in your ears. Caleb’s pleading yet hungry look sent blood rushing to your face.

Before the word okay fully left your mouth, Caleb had buried himself between your thighs. He licked his tongue over your panties, making them even more wet. He moaned as he inhaled your scent and let out curses as his pants became increasingly tight. Your mind had filled with cotton. The feeling of his tongue through your underwear sent electric shocks through your body. Your panties found their way off you and into Caleb’s hand as he jerked himself off while burying his tongue in you. The feeling was euphoric. Caleb devoured you like a man starved, moaning shamelessly into you as if your pleasure was his only purpose. His tongue moved with practised precision like he’d memorised you—where to lick, where to suck, how to curl it just right to make your hips twitch and your thighs tremble. You gripped the seat for stability, one hand tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan against you. The sound of it vibrated through your core, and you nearly came undone right then. “Fuck, Caleb—” you gasped, voice catching in your throat. Your body arched off the seat, thighs clenched around his head, and he just grabbed your hips and pulled you closer like he couldn’t get enough. When you came, it was sudden, loud, and shattering. He didn’t stop. He kept licking you through it, groaning as you grinded against his mouth. And even after you finally slumped back, breathing hard and completely wrecked, Caleb just looked up at you—lips swollen, chin wet, eyes wild. “You taste even better than I imagined,” he whispered, voice rough with restraint.

“Are you still mad at me?” Still catching your breath, you shook your head. “Can I please fuck you? Please.” You nodded. “Fuck… I promise,” he said, breathless, “I’ll make you forget every toy. Every other name. You won’t want anyone but me after this.” He crawled up and hovered above you. You watched him fumble for a condom in his pockets, the urgency in his movements making your pulse quicken. He tore it open, rolled it on with practiced ease, and looked down at you like he still couldn’t believe you were real. “You sure?” he asked, voice rough, body hovering over yours. You pulled him down by the collar of his shirt, pressing your mouth to his like it was the only answer you had. Your kiss was hot, messy, full of every dizzying want that had been building since the call. The stretch of him as he pushed in made you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders. Caleb groaned, low and guttural, forehead pressing against yours as he slid deeper, inch by inch. “Fuck— so tight,” he whispered, trembling with restraint. He bit his lip to stop another moan from escaping. He felt so good he almost came right there and then. You couldn’t breathe. Could barely think. He filled you completely, like he belonged there, like he was made for this. Once he was fully in, he paused, letting you adjust. His lips found your jaw, your neck, and he whispered your name like a prayer. You clenched around him in response, and he choked out a moan. He finally moved, slow, pleasuring thrusts that had you arching your back and your mouth falling open with each one. He kissed you like he needed to keep you quiet, swallowing your moans, like every sound you made would drive him over the edge.

“Oh god- Caleb,” Your nails dug into his back, “You feel so good.” That broke something in him. He picked up the pace, snapping his hips into you harder, deeper. The car rocked beneath you both, the windows fogged up, the space filled with your gasps, your whimpers, his soft curses. “Wanted this so fucking bad,” he said through gritted teeth. “Every night. Thought of you like this. Begging. Shaking. Needing me.” You were already close again— your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. “Caleb— I’m gonna—” “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his hand slipping between your bodies, thumb circling your clit. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel it.” You shattered again. Your whole body tightened, hips jerking, thighs trembling as the pleasure overtook you. He groaned, the feeling of you clenching around him pushing him over the edge. “Shit—fuck—I’m coming—” he moaned, burying himself deep as his whole body tensed.

He stayed there, chest heaving, forehead pressed against yours as you both caught your breath. Your hands moved to his hair, brushing it back from his face. He looked at you like you were the only thing in the galaxy worth chasing.

And maybe… you were.

Thank you for reading<3

Want to be added to my tag list?

[2-dsimp]

《The smutty hitman chronicles》

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→【The Hacker: Milkies?】

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Cw: 🔞NSFW MDNI🔞Fem reader! throatpie, deep throating, praise, overstimulation, mention of lactation, breeding, and impregnation.

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『Yandere! Hacker that’s always spontaneous in everything he does. Whether it be from wrecking enemy databases or just casually trolling people online to pass the time. His unpredictable nature shines true in any setting he’s in.』

『Yandere! Hacker who’s the definition of an orange cat boyfriend. Always unhinged and in general an overly affectionate bundle of jittery joy when it comes to his loving darling.』

『Yandere! Hacker who loves everything about you from head to toe and is fascinated time and time again by your body anatomy. Reason why he’s got his hands on you 24/7 and due to his boundless obsession and curiosity. As to how you function on a daily basis being so soft and squishy compared to his lithe and hardened form. Regardless, You’re always kept on your toes whenever you’re in close quarters with the clingy fiend.』

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“Yujin, honey, are you alright? You’re spacing out again.”

『You hummed in an amused tone as you looked from beneath your lashes. To see your hacker boyfriend eyeing you with an intense glint in his sharp feline eyes that were up to no good. You jolted slightly when you felt him abruptly shove his hands down your crop top to greedily cup both of your jiggling boobs. Giving them a good hard knead.』

“Yeah, uh huh I’m fine babes it’s just—Wow! Your tits are so heavy and perky! So perfect to suck on…”

『Yujin drawled, dumbly in pure admiration as he went on to pinch and tweak at both of your nipples like they were joysticks. All the while his fleshy tip lightly dragged against your lips and chin smearing precum all over your face. As you were on your knees fondling his hairless balls and jerking off his pulsating shaft.』

“I read somewhere that mentioned how woman could lactate. Is that true? Of so, can you make that happen like right now, pretty please? I really wanna start milking you plus I’m thirsty.”

『He begged needily as he was completely fixated on your enticing mounds. Which had him utterly whipped at the thought of seeing milk dribble out those puffy areolas. That Yujin adored and revered to be the cutest thing of all. All the while he let out a throaty purr from how you started to lavish your wet tongue on his cockhead coaxing his salty sweet pre straight from the tap』

“Jin, listen I’d have to get pregnant in order to lactate. I can’t just do it at will on my own. It doesn't really work that way hon”

『You explained gently from how oblivious the 20 year old lynx hybrid sounded. Remembering how Yujin admitted that he didn’t have any definitive knowledge on the birds in the bees. Since he was raised in a very sheltered environment for most of his upbringing by strict caregivers.』

“Oh really? Well that's an easy fix! I could easily knock you up if that's what it takes baby cakes! All I gotta do is make sure to cram my spunk in every cute little hole you've got right?”

『Yujin chimed with a fanged lopsided grin and before you could even correct him with the right terminology. He suddenly thrusted his hips, forcing his thick cock deep into your mouth with each drawback of his pelvis.』

“Now that I think about it, I guess creaming your lovely throat would be good for starters~ you’d love that huh baby? I can just tell from from the way that sweet pussy is dripping all over the carpet~”

『He cooed lovingly, staring down at you while meanly squeezing your cheeks to get a close up at his dick. That was stretching open those plump lips that he fantasized kissing for all eternity. You were gripping his thighs for life support trying not to choke』

『As Yujin became Hellbent on pumping your throat full of his jizz to help fulfill his agenda. Of turning you into his lovely milk dispenser so that he’d be able to suckle on your swollen breasts. And admire his litter growing inside of your tummy for hours on end whenever he's slaving away in his room full of monitors and PCs.』

“Oh fuck, I think imma cum soon! You’re doing so good for me, so fucking good! just like I knew my pretty girl would. I swear Imma take the best care of you, make sure that my mate never goes in need of anything”

『He babbled, drooling from the tightness of your esophagus closing in on his throbbing meat. In tandem with how you squeezed his family jewels that were bloated with semen ready to make its home inside of you. And It doesn’t take long before Yujin goes completely ridgid tangling his clawed fingers in your scalp to further plant his crotch right against your face.』

『You could only process a deep hiss escaping your lover as your mouth was filled with nothing but his thick warm seed. He held your head in place and forcing you to savor every last drop of his cum that marinated your tastebuds. Yujin whined softly in protest at the thought of pulling away too soon.』

『The Hacker almost didn’t wanna pull out of your heavenly jaws at all but he still had his quota to fill. So with great reluctance he pulled out and look down at you with satisfaction. Brandishing a smile full of childlike chagrin as he sent you clutching for your pearls with his daunting words. Which hinted at the fact that you weren’t getting any sleep tonight.』

“Welp that’s one hole down baby only two more to go~ but this time I’mma fill ya up more than once since I gotta make sure that it all sticks mkay?”

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞. 𝐀𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭.

[ 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 ]

𝐚/𝐧 : To all my crows—If you’ve been here a while, you know I usually haunt the angsty, aching, slow-burn corners of the fandom. Fluff? Domestic chaos? This is all new territory for me. But sometimes, the right prompt (and the right queen) can coax even a gloom-monger into the light.

So here’s my first real venture into soft moments and kitchen concerts. I hope you enjoy a singing, dancing MC, a teasing, unexpectedly-soft Sylus, and the kind of found family comfort that sneaks up on you when you least expect it.

This was a big step out of my comfort zone, so please be kind in the comments—your support (and softness) means the world!

𝐝𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : For @someprettyname — Thank you, your majesty, for this delightfully fluffy prompt. Without you, this kitchen would be a lot quieter (and far less sparkly). This is yours.

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐍'𝐓 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐓 to wander.

It started as just a walk—an excuse to stretch her legs, to shut up the static humming beneath her skin after sitting too long in a place that didn’t even echo her name, let alone remember it.

But Sylus’s mansion was never meant for soft things. Not for bare feet on chilled marble, or cotton pajama pants brushing against furniture that probably cost more than her entire existence. Every inch of the place screamed: You don’t belong here. With a very tasteful, very intimidating accent.

And honestly? She felt it. In her bones, in her lungs, in the careful hush of every step.

The hallway stretched ahead like something out of a villain’s Pinterest board—endless, empty, lined with faceless portraits and obsidian statues so shiny they probably judged you if you wore cheap mascara. Silver light puddled across the floor in cold, dramatic swaths, filtered through frosted windows that showed her absolutely nothing.

This place is a villain origin story waiting to happen, she thought. And I’m the idiot wandering into it in bunny slippers.

She almost laughed. Almost.

But the air was too still.

Behind her, the soft flutter of metal wings sliced through the quiet. Mephisto landed on the bannister with a delicate clink, his red optic blinking slow. Watchful. Patient. Judgy.

“You again,” she murmured, not bothering to turn. “Of course you’re the nosy one. You probably have spreadsheets.”

Mephisto, as expected, said nothing. But the crow tilted his head, mechanical feathers gleaming like razor-thin blades. She didn’t need words to feel his gaze settle along her spine—a second, silent heartbeat.

Weirdly enough, it was... comforting.

Like the house wasn't watching her anymore.

Someone was.

Not with suspicion. Not even with disapproval, which would've been understandable.

Just... interest. Measured. Curious. Maybe a little ominous.

She slowed, fingers trailing velvet-lined walls as she drifted deeper into the hush. She didn’t know where she was going—only that her pulse was finally calming down. That this—this strange, silent domesticity—felt more real than anything waiting outside these walls.

The fear didn't vanish.

But here, it was... negotiable.

As if the mansion, with all its sleek menace, had decided she might be worth tolerating. As if Mephisto had already logged her movements in some terrifying database labeled Potential Threat: Probably Harmless. As if Sylus—

Nope. Absolutely not.

She cut that thought off so fast it probably got whiplash.

She was still a guest here.

Still a girl in borrowed clothes and morally questinable slippers.

But when she glanced back and saw Mephisto trailing her—silent, loyal, and radiating mechanical judgment—she found herself smiling.

Just a little.

And kept walking.

She followed the corridor’s gentle curve, the floor cool beneath her feet, the air laced with the faintest trace of something botanical—expensive, rare, the kind of scent that whispered you’re underdressed. The light softened here, splintered through patterned glass that painted restless shadows across the walls like they were having a mood.

Mephisto perched on the edge of a side table, talons tapping out an erratic rhythm—half warning, half invitation. He was practically theatrical in his stillness: unblinking, overly dramatic, like a judge in a reality show no one signed up for.

She paused, glanced back over her shoulder, and smirked. “He’s not about to jump out from behind a curtain, is he?” Her voice was low, swallowed by the hush.

Even the security sensors seemed to lean in.

She spun on her heel, calling out, “Sylus? Are you lurking? Or did you finally decide to trust me not to set the place on fire?”

Her laugh slipped out, sudden and small—a startled sound she immediately pretended wasn’t hers.

She turned back to Mephisto, raising a brow. “You’d warn me, right? Blink twice if the twins are about to pop out and scare me into early retirement.”

Nothing. Just the soft, mechanical whir of Mephisto’s gears—a helpful reminder that she was never entirely alone, and never entirely not being judged by a bird with WiFi.

She dragged her palm along the back of a velvet chair, fingertips tracing unfamiliar swirls. It felt oddly intoxicating—unchaperoned, unsupervised, a tourist in a house built for control freaks and beautifully repressed secrets.

“Just you and me,” she murmured, voice warming, shrinking the room to something less vast and more… negotiable.

A hush settled. Not quite comfort—she wasn’t reckless—but almost. Closer than she’d been five minutes ago.

With a last conspiratorial look at Mephisto, she stepped into the light and warmth spilling from the next room. The kitchen—blessedly, miraculously—looked like it might have let someone human inside.

The kitchen was a revelation.

Amber lights crowned polished countertops, casting soft warmth over chrome and ceramic. The air hinted at citrus and something herbal, like a garden had once flirted with the windows and left behind a secret. It was the only room in the mansion that didn’t seem to mind a little clutter: a perfectly folded dish towel, a fruit bowl with exactly three apples, a single mug air-drying beside the sink—proof that someone, somewhere, had been here and survived.

She lingered at the threshold, part-thief, part-tourist, curiosity winning out over self-preservation. “I guess this is as close to normal as I’ll get,” she muttered, glancing back for Mephisto’s verdict.

He’d already claimed the highest cabinet, talons wrapped around the molding like a gargoyle at a black-tie gala.

She drifted to the refrigerator and pulled open the door, letting the cold rush over her like an interrogation light. Inside, everything was arranged with military precision: brand names she’d only seen on TV, more imported cheese than actual food, and a rainbow of jars so organized it was either genius or a cry for help. She stared, half-impressed, then plucked a pear and set it on the counter, grinning.

“You think he alphabetizes his condiments?” she whispered to Mephisto, like she was sharing state secrets.

The silence practically cheered her on.

Her confidence grew with every discovery: drawers lined with artisanal teas, a militant row of spice jars with intimidatingly perfect labels. “Of course he drinks white tea,” she scoffed under her breath. “Probably the kind that comes with a rulebook and a thermometer.” The knots in her shoulders began to unravel, replaced with the quiet thrill of snooping somewhere slightly forbidden.

She made a slow lap around the kitchen, poking at spice jars, lifting lids, seeing how much she could get away with before a robot army descended.

“All right, featherhead,” she called up, “I need your expertise. Are you a sous chef or more of a kitchen overlord? Because I don’t work for tyrants.”

Mephisto shifted, wings fluttering with all the enthusiasm of a disinterested judge.

She dropped into a theatrical bow, pear in hand. “Your Majesty, may I have your blessing to steal exactly one snack and promise not to poison your master in the process?”

No answer. But she could’ve sworn the angle of his head was a yes.

This time, her laughter lingered—a little brighter, a little more hers. In the gentle chaos of everyday life, her heart remembered how to settle.

For the first time since arriving, she felt almost safe.

Almost herself.

The quiet shattered—split by a low, traitorous grumble. Her stomach, voicing its concerns in no uncertain terms.

She blinked down, then glanced at Mephisto, who held his perch with the regal calm of someone who’d never skipped lunch. They exchanged a slow look: hers mildly accusatory, his forever inscrutable.

“Don’t give me that face,” she muttered. “You’re the one who made me forget I haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t vacuum-sealed or 90% caffeine in days.”

Her gaze slid to the pantry, then the fridge. She could’ve grabbed something quick—a handful of crackers, a wedge of terrifyingly expensive cheese—but it would’ve felt like stealing. Worse, it would have felt temporary.

She didn’t want a snack.

She wanted to cook.

“Alright,” she announced, clapping her hands like she’d just been handed her own Food Network special, striding to the countertop with all the misplaced confidence of someone about to burn water. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

Mephisto cawed, sharp and judgy—a sound that said, Oh no, she’s serious.

She shot him a look. “Relax, Mephie. I’m not about to hack Sylus’s music archive unsupervised. I know how he gets with his precious things.”

But the kitchen had already started to melt into a lounge she’d previously avoided like a tax audit—walls in matte black, brass accents winking in the low light like secret agents. And there, in the far corner: the record wall.

She stopped. Whistled. Tried not to look like she wanted to marry the entire vinyl collection.

Floor to ceiling. LPs filed with such aggressive neatness it bordered on a kink. Jazz, classical, synthwave, operatic rock, imports in languages she’d need Google Translate just to insult. Each spine lined up like soldiers in a musical army, daring her to touch.

She drifted closer, fingers skating the spines. “I knew he was intense, but this…” Her voice dropped to a whisper, awe and mischief doing a duet. “This is serial-killer-level obsessive.”

Mephisto cawed again, the sound pure disapproval.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” she sighed. “No breathing near the vinyl. Don’t even think too hard in their direction. But—” She paused at a battered sleeve. “He actually owns this?”

The record was worn at the corners—loved, not just collected. She slid it out, lips curving, nostalgia blooming for a memory she hadn’t lived.

“Oh, I definitely like him more now,” she told the bird, as if Mephisto was taking notes for a future roast.

She lifted the lid, set the record down with the reverence usually reserved for ancient relics and overpriced shoes, and dropped the needle. A heartbeat of crackle—then music, lush and golden, pouring into the room. The kind of song that demanded kitchen dancing and a reckless disregard for dignity.

She glanced at Mephisto, cranked the volume with a devil-may-care grin. “Hope your circuits are ready, because we’re doing this my way.”

The first beat dropped—crisp, insistent, absolutely not optional.

She felt it before she moved. Drums slipping under her skin, bass strutting in like it owned the lease, and suddenly the whole room felt like it belonged to her and her alone.

“Oh, this?” she called, eyebrows doing a victory dance. “This is what music is supposed to feel like, Mephie. Take notes.”

He lingered in the doorway, feathers bristling, optic blinking in a way that screamed, I regret everything.

She did not care.

Not with Amy Winehouse swirling through the air—silk, smoke, and heartbreak. Not when the rhythm took her hand and refused to let go. Not when, just for this moment, nothing belonged to Sylus, or the Hunters, or anyone who thought they could tell her how to be.

This moment belonged to her.

She spun, playfully reckless, toes sliding on cool tile, shoulders grooving to the beat. One hand claimed an invisible mic; the other thumped her thigh, mouthing lyrics with the confidence of someone who’d never met shame.

“Why don’t you come on over, Valery…” she crooned, dragging every syllable, gloriously off-key.

Mid-chorus, she spun, pointed dramatically at Mephisto—conductor summoning a deeply reluctant soloist.

“You going to flap a wing or what? No? Suit yourself, but you’re officially in the band.”

He didn’t budge. But for a second, she’d swear his optic squinted—a fine line between judgment and a tiny bit of ugh, fine, I’ll allow it.

“Come on!” she laughed, arms thrown wide, slicing the air. “This is peak music, my guy. Not dancing is basically illegal.”

The tempo soared. So did she.

Not literally, but in the way her body caught the horns, rhythm rolling through her hips and knees, her spine arcing with joy. Hair swinging, laughter bubbling—breathless, real, the kind you only set free when you finally, truly stop caring who’s watching.

No fear. No surveillance. No expectations.

Just music. Just movement. Just her.

And the echo of joy, blooming in a room that—until now—had probably thought “fun” was a security risk.

She glided back into the kitchen, hips swaying, beat urging her into a performance no one had requested—but one she desperately needed. She sang without a shred of shame, lyrics tumbling wild and loud from her lips, filling the cavernous space until it felt a little less like a luxury mausoleum.

With a flourish, she flung open the fridge. Tomatoes, basil, fresh pasta—she gathered them up, spinning toward the counter as if every ingredient had been choreographed. A jar of sauce, a hunk of cheese, a heroic fistful of garlic. She lined them up and delivered a deep, theatrical bow.

She snatched a spatula, twirled it like a baton, and pointed it straight at Mephisto. “Your solo, maestro,” she declared, matching her voice to the music’s drama.

And—miracle of miracles—Mephisto obliged. He cawed, sharp and perfectly on beat, then hopped from cabinet to counter, displaying that strange, mechanical grace only he could pull off. Every time she brandished the spatula his way, he responded on cue—an unlikely duet that dissolved her into helpless, infectious laughter.

The song faded; a new track flared to life—brass, synth, swagger: “Uptown Funk.” She whooped, unable to help herself, and kicked her dance into a higher gear. Shoulders popped, feet tapped, she shimmied past the stove like she’d been training for this her whole life, waving a box of pasta overhead like a victory banner.

A saucepan clattered onto the burner. Garlic hit the oil, sizzling, the air swelling with the scent of home she’d never had. She never stopped moving—spinning to chop basil, hair flying, spatula now her fearless microphone as she belted out every lyric, off-key and glorious, head tipped back in total abandon.

Mephisto watched, cawed again, wings flapping in a half-hearted attempt to keep up with the madness. She grinned, emboldened, hips swinging even more, letting herself dissolve into the music. Every chorus, she leaned in, spatula pointed at her unlikely backup singer. He never missed his cue.

She was everywhere at once—stirring sauce, salting water, tossing pasta with the casual confidence of someone who’d never been a guest. Flour streaked her wrist, sauce marked her cheek, a wild, reckless light igniting her eyes.

For the first time, she wasn’t a guest.

Not a captive.

Not a girl lost in someone else's fortress.

She was chaos incarnate, barefoot and divine—lips parted mid-lyric, apronless goddess conjuring a universe from steam and song. Every pot and pan a moon in her orbit. Gravity bowed to her, not the other way around.

And Sylus…

Sylus stood in the doorway, silent as a ghost, all sharp lines and softer shadows.

He didn’t announce himself. Didn’t clear his throat. His entrance was seamless, slipped in between bass lines and the golden haze of garlic and laughter. Now he leaned against the frame—one arm folded, the other draped loose, mouth curved in something gentler than a smirk.

A smile no one else ever saw.

Reserved. Unscripted. A secret shaped by her presence alone.

She hadn’t noticed him—not yet.

Too busy performing for the only audience that mattered: herself, and a crow with questionable taste.

The music swelled, brazen and bright. She answered it with her body—hips snapping, shoulders rolling, fearless and free. She bounded as the chorus demanded—dance, jump on it—dropping low and springing back up, joy unraveling in every line of her.

“If you sexy then flaunt it…”

The spatula jabbed at Mephisto, daring him to keep up.

“If you freaky then own it…”

She spun, breathless and beaming, surrendering to the moment, utterly unguarded.

And Sylus watched.

He watched the tumble of her hair, the dusting of flour on her temple, the clatter of a wooden spoon dropped and forgotten. The mess she made of his kitchen. The much greater mess she made of him.

He’d seen her composed. Cautious. Sharp.

But this—this was something else entirely.

This was softness, wild and unmade. Chaos with a beating heart. The raw, unfiltered version of her that bloomed only when she forgot to care who might be watching.

And gods, she was beautiful like this.

Not in the way he could protect. Not in the way he could teach, tame, or control.

But in the way that made him ache—to stand silent in the doorway, memorizing every untamed, radiant beat she spun through, already lost to her orbit and far too willing to stay there.

She spun mid-chorus, spatula raised in triumph, lips curled around the next lyric—

—and froze.

Her body stalled first. Then her breath. The words died, caught in a hush thick with shock. The music played on, gloriously oblivious.

He was there. Still leaning in the doorway, still watching—smirk deepening, lazy and devastating, stretched across his mouth like he had nothing but time. His eyes—red, amused, unblinking—had never left her.

They’d been there the whole time. Fixed. Steady. Impossible to ignore.

She stared. Spatula midair, hair stuck to her cheek, sauce bubbling behind her like a forgotten subplot.

“Oh my god,” she whispered.

Then, louder, horrified and breathless: “How long have you—?”

Sylus pushed off the frame, arms unfolding with the kind of deliberate grace that should come with a warning label. “Long enough to consider selling tickets.”

A strangled sound escaped her—half squeak, half mortified groan, all dignity in retreat.

He stepped fully into the room, his presence sweeping away the last shadow of cold. “Tell me,” he drawled, voice pure velvet, “was that rehearsed? Or should I come back for the encore?”

Her cheeks caught fire. She tried, desperately, to salvage her dignity. “It was… not for you. Obviously. It was just—”

She flailed the spatula, as if she could swipe the memory away.

He arched a brow. “Your way of buttering up the bird?”

She spluttered, caught between laughter and outrage. “No, I was cooking. And vibing. Alone.” She shot a betrayed glare at Mephisto, who cawed—perfectly on cue—then preened like a theater critic after a standing ovation.

“Et tu, Mephie?” she groaned.

Sylus blinked. “Mephie?”

Her stomach dropped. “Oh god. Did I say that out loud?”

“You gave him a nickname.” He sounded genuinely scandalized. Then, with growing offense, “Where’s mine?”

She stared, deadpan. “Do you want one?”

“That depends.” His eyes were all secrets, mouth curving. “Does it come with a song and dance routine?”

She laughed—breathless, pink-cheeked, ruined in the best possible way. “Only if you bring your own spatula.”

He stepped closer—just a fraction, but everything felt different. Mischief still glinted in his eyes, but something softer simmered underneath, private and reverent, like a secret meant only for them.

She felt it: humming between them, threading through the quiet.

Something had changed.

Not just the air, not just the tension, and definitely not just the fact that she’d just given an impromptu kitchen concert while pasta boiled in the background.

It was the knowing. The being known.

And for once, it didn’t feel like she’d been caught.

It felt like she’d finally been seen.

Then the pot hissed.

Violently.

She jolted, eyes wide as the pasta water surged up in a steamy revolt, bubbling over and crashing onto the burner with all the fury of a kitchen crime scene.

“Shit—shit, no, no, no—”

She lurched for the stove, nearly tripping over her own feet, spatula abandoned mid-air. Mephisto cawed in protest, scandalized by the chaos.

Steam curled upward, warm and sticky against her cheeks as she scrambled to turn down the heat, muttering curses under her breath—none of which remotely matched the delicate melody still drifting through the kitchen.

Behind her, Sylus didn’t budge. He stood like a living sculpture—arms crossed, mouth quirked, one brow arched with glacial amusement.

“Is this part of the performance?” he drawled, his voice drier than the air outside N109.

She didn’t even look at him. “This is what happens when someone materializes out of nowhere and distracts the chef.”

“Ah.” He cocked his head, feigning deep thought. “So it’s a staged kitchen emergency.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder, exasperated. “I was hungry. And I didn’t want anything vacuum-sealed or—what was it—science-project adjacent. So I made pasta. Like a normal person.”

“Mm.” His gaze lingered, intent, as if she were a puzzle that would solve itself if he watched long enough. “And the dancing?”

She stabbed at the noodles. “That was for morale.”

A beat passed. Then, quietly—his humor softened at the edges by something warmer: “Of course it was.”

He didn’t offer to help. Not yet. Just watched her—the way her shoulders loosened with every stir, the way she exhaled like she was finally figuring out how to breathe.

Steam rose between them, a shimmering veil—more charged than distant, more invitation than barrier.

Something had shifted.

Not quite close. Not quite far.

Just enough space for him to wonder how long she’d keep dancing when she thought no one was watching.

And how long it would take for her to let him join in.

He moved at his own pace—unhurried, unbothered, like he’d always belonged here. He slipped past her shoulder with barely a brush of fabric, rolling up his sleeves and baring skin she’d only glimpsed in stolen seconds. Light caught on the veins of his wrists, the old scar along his knuckle, the flex of tendon as he took the wooden spoon from her hand.

She clung to simple tasks: slicing tomatoes, stripping basil, listening to the sauce hiss and thicken. But she was acutely, almost painfully, aware of him—every movement amplified, every shared breath somehow heavier.

Sylus tasted the sauce, slow and deliberate. “You’re heavy-handed with the garlic,” he observed, lips quirking.

She shot him a glare that tried to be scathing, but ended up affectionate. “Maybe I like flavor. Not everyone’s a food snob.”

He feigned horror, brushing past her again—close enough that the heat of his arm sent goosebumps racing up hers.

Suddenly, their hands reached for the same jar of pepper. Her fingers grazed his—just a flicker, just enough to spark. She pulled back, hiding the jolt behind a soft scoff.

He noticed. Of course he did.

“Relax. I don’t bite,” he murmured, his voice pitched just for her.

She nearly fumbled the grinder. “That’s not what the rumors say.”

Sylus’s mouth curved into a private smile—the kind reserved for empty rooms and, apparently, this kitchen. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

He added pepper with theatrical precision, glancing at her like he was challenging her to critique his style. She nudged him with her elbow—light, playful, the opening move in a game she’d only just realized she wanted to play.

“Fine, chef. Show me how it’s done.” Her voice came out a little breathier than she meant.

He obliged, and for a heartbeat their hands overlapped on the spoon. Her skin tingled where his fingers brushed hers—just a second, just enough. She tried not to react, but the electricity was impossible to hide.

Sylus’s gaze lingered on her face, sharp and unexpectedly gentle. “I thought you were fearless,” he teased.

She ducked her head, pretending to scrutinize the bubbling water. “Only in the field. Not in… domestic warfare.”

A low laugh rumbled from him—rare and unguarded. “And yet you take on my kitchen like it’s an enemy base.”

She grinned, letting her own laughter bubble over and fill the room. “I go where I’m needed.”

They slipped into a new rhythm—awkward at first, then easier by degrees. Sylus corrected her grip on the knife, his hand wrapping over hers, lingering a fraction too long before letting go. She dusted flour off his forearm with a shy flick, only for him to follow the movement with softened eyes and a half-smile that felt almost private.

At one point, she reached across him for the colander, her hip bumping his. “Sorry,” she mumbled, cheeks prickling with warmth.

He looked at her—really looked, like he was searching for a way out but finding none.

Instead, he reached up—almost tentative—and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His knuckles traced the curve of her jaw, gentle and reverent, leaving heat in their wake. She blinked, lips parting, the whole world shrinking to the space between them.

The air turned thick and honeyed, everything suspended—neither of them quite willing to move, everything balanced on the knife-edge of something quietly, breathtakingly new.

From the counter, Mephisto cawed—sharp as a starting bell, shattering the spell just as it threatened to turn into something else.

She ducked away with a shaky laugh, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “He’s judging us,” she said, nodding toward the bird.

Sylus’s smile didn’t fade. “Let him. He’s seen worse.”

And, for the first time, she believed it. The tension melted from her shoulders, replaced by something warmer, lighter, threaded with laughter she couldn’t keep in.

Cooking got easier after that—messy and collaborative, punctuated with whispered jokes and shared glances. They moved around each other, learning a duet older than language.

With every accidental brush of skin, every glance held a beat too long, she let herself trust the moment.

Just a little more.

The kitchen quieted again. Not the awkward silence of strangers, but the earned hush of familiarity—a quiet that wrapped around them like a secret, where nothing needed explaining anymore.

Steam curled from the pot in lazy ribbons as Sylus plated the pasta with a care that almost surprised her. The dish looked elegant, considering its riotous birth, and when he handed her a bowl, there was no ceremony—just the simple, practiced ease of something shared.

“Chef’s orders,” he murmured, voice low and teasing.

She grinned, accepting the bowl with both hands as if it were a holy offering.

Without asking, she hopped onto the counter, legs swinging above the tile, tucking one foot behind the other. The bowl settled warm in her lap, steam curling under her chin as she leaned in for a bite.

It tasted… right.

Not perfect. Not fancy. But real—tangy, warm, too much garlic, just enough salt. She hummed, cheeks full, then offered him a forkful with a conspiratorial tilt of her hand.

He didn’t move to take the bite. Just watched her, elbow braced against the counter, his own bowl resting forgotten in his palm.

“What?” she asked, half-muffled by a mouthful of pasta.

Sylus’s gaze lingered—not sharp, not analyzing. Just… seeing her, like he was piecing together a puzzle and realizing he liked not having all the pieces.

“You should sing more often,” he said at last.

She blinked, startled.

There was no irony in his voice. No teasing edge. Just a quiet certainty, so sincere it made her throat tighten around her next bite.

“It suits you,” he added, softer this time. Then he turned his attention back to his food, as if he hadn’t just cracked her heart wide open.

She stared at her bowl, cheeks warming, not quite sure what to do with all that tenderness he’d just given her—no games, no flirty dodge, just something rare and quietly dangerous.

Because when he said it, she knew he didn’t just mean her voice.

He meant this—her, barefoot on his tile, wild-haired and flushed from the stove, music still humming in her bones. He liked her messy. He liked her real.

And she liked being seen that way.

Maybe more than she should.

Her chest lifted on a slow, careful breath—the kind that settles deep, the kind that whispers you could stay. Just a little longer.

Maybe even longer than that.

She glanced at Sylus—posture easy, expression unreadable, but somehow softer than before. Then at Mephisto, grooming himself on the windowsill as if chaos had always included him.

The kitchen was still a beautiful disaster.

But for the first time, she didn’t feel like an intruder in it.

She felt… woven into the fabric of it. Of them.

Like the chaos and the calm had finally made space for her. And so had he.

She dipped her spoon back into the bowl, taking another bite—slower this time, as if to savor the moment—and thought:

This feels dangerously close to home.

— © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝒃𝒚 𝑺𝒚𝒍𝒖𝒔 𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝑪𝒓𝒐𝒘

[diejager]

Technical Issues Cw: smut, sex work, OnlyFans, porn, fuck machine, squirting, prostitution handjob, tell me if I missed any.

Part3

It started with a reluctant alliance between SpecGru and KorTac, two powerful PMCs that were tricked by the same employer, played and played again, unable to work alone to take them down. So both heads of the PMCs decided to work together to take down this problematic employer, which meant that they’d have to come and go between bases, sharing the same space and the same area. They were unenthusiastic about it, still holding a grudge against the other.

There was a technical issue in giving access to KoTac members sent over to the British base the right clearances for the compiled data, to-know intel and the statistics. That’s how König found himself in the database, looking up the different clearance codes to give him access to the information he needed before 1900, he only had half an hour to find the code if he didn’t want to miss the event.

Unfortunately, all he stumbled into was a page, a familiar name popping up on this person’s browser history. It was Soap’s. Sergeant John “Soap” MacTavish, the snipe and demolition specialist that König knew from both experience and intel. It was a strange find, Soap had used a public browser to watch his nightly activities and had forgotten to wipe it clean —did he even wipe his history? Something ugly flared in König’s chest, an explosive warmth of possession and envy. How could’ve he not seen him on the chat when König spent so much time on it himself?

With dilated pupils and a one-track mind, he completed his search and rushed to his room, pushing past everyone he met in the hall with his broad shoulders and even bigger ego, nostrils flaring and seeing red. He knew this kind of reaction was nonsensical, near illogical on his par, seeing the type of content he consumed, but he couldn’t help it, he was the second highest payer.

Slamming and locking the door behind him, he ripped his mask off, throwing it haphazardly on the floor and ripped his clothes off, his skin hot to the touch in his cold room. It was 1857 —perfect. Settling himself on his temporary desk in nothing but his briefs, he felt his cock struggle against the fabric, head poking out on the side of his boxers. He was quick to open up the right tab, clicking in the sweet temptation of the profile picture.

A screen popped out, a familiar bed in a familiar setting with familiar objects surrounding the plush sheets, and in the middle, sat the little cherub of his dreams. Seraphim, the little slut that he was happy to spend his legacy on, to watch and indulge in the sinful act jerking off to a woman he might never meet or know outside of this screen. He pushed his waistband down his thighs and his cock swung out, hanging low between his legs, veins pulsing with the rush of blood from his head to his cock and uncut head drooling on his chair.

👑 gifted you 100$

“Hello, sir,” you smiled so sweetly at him, glossy lips pulled into an innocent image, “Thank you for the gift.”

He always gave you a gift at the start of each live he watched to get a greeting from you and would gift you much more with ever minute he spent watching you bend over your bed, ass up and face down, getting fucked by the fuck machine he gifted you. You had two cameras set up, one that let them view your tight cunt stretched around the silicone copy of his cock - thick and veiny - and one giving them a clear view of your tearful eyes and cock drunk expression.

König kept his eyes glued to your cunt, ploughed so roughly bu his girth that slick gushed around it, lips swollen and wet, and the little plug your pushed into your flared rim, the flat handle spreading your ass for them to see. He jerked himself, calloused fingers gripping the head of his cock and spreading pre down his shaft, the foreskin spread around his girth. He shuddered, his cock throbbing in his hand, reacting to the image of your ravaged and gasping figure taking the dildo so well, mewling and wailing like the angelic whore you were.

He wanted you to come, he wanted to see you squirt around the toy, slick rolling down your thighs in waves of pleasure, your voice breaking as you mewl and wail. He moved thoughtlessly, hand moving to type out his command, sending you more money, it was an addiction at this rate, his need to sustain you and your living. If you let him, he’d be your sugar daddy, paying for everything you’d need and you’d have the real deal, his hot and heavy cock rather than a silicone.

“Please let me come, sir!” Your begging had always been delicious and who was he to deny you of your pleasure when you brought him to his ground shaking climax.

He came with a loud groan, a deep rumbling in his chest, still pumping his cock as the head twisted, spraying his opaque cum over the table, white and viscous. His eyes rolled at the back of his mind, lids feeling heavy and body wracked with tremors, legs jerking as his hand slowed down, steadily riding out his mind-numbing release.

“Them too?” Horangi peered at the four Brits, an unamused gleam in his hidden eyes.

König nodded, his hood twisting with every motion, fingers moving gracefully over his rifle, dismantling and cleaning it after their recon mission. A groan caught his attention, his eyes moving from the beauty of his weapon to the cold blues that stared back at him.

“It does not matter,” Nikto’s voice had always been violent, a rough and jagged husk that exhumed power, “We found her first.”

It was a statement to himself, a strong and unyielding one that stemmed from Nikto’s dark and broken person, but they agreed.

Part 5

Taglist: @warenai @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @cutiecusp @ladyof-themoon @yourdaydreamerfan @blackhoodlea @daisychainsinknots @under-the-dirt @moansteur @iamnotfinedaddy @0alk0msan @katzarantos @danielle143 @bubbletae7

[haithhegimp]

in my heart of hearts, they are all Real robins (honourable mentions!)

WHOOF alright ranting and robin list under the cut!

these are a whooole buncha robins pulled from DC database robin disambiguation (which i cant link properly for somefuck reason, just look DC database robin disambiguation to get the page im talking about), that i sorted through with some criteria

have to be called robin- robin adjascent characters who are not called robin are not counted (but im making an honourable mentions thing of them)

they have to be a hero/vigilante/crime-fighter/something like that (did i ignore this rule to add cassandra? yes i did but screw you, its cass)

if i have one robin with a certain name, then i won't include AU versions of that robin (eg i didnt include any of the AU dick graysons)

the rule above does not apply if they are just named robin

they have to be in a comic- doesn't matter if theyre from a comic, as long as they're in one (did i make this rule because of matt mcginnis? yes, yes i did.)

i only double checked some of them so there are almost definitely robins that should be in the honourable mentions thing i will be making, but snuck in here. i dont care because i love them (side eyes bruce clone robin and grits teeth) like them all.

i did not order or organize them (other than dick, jason, and lance being the first three) because that would actually fucking kill me, so you can make a game of finding which robins are which! here is a list of them all, also not in order or by who is who because again that would kill me. please find them on dc database if youre interested. a lot of them are very fun characters.

dick grayson

lance bruner

jason todd

tim drake

carie kelley

stephanie brown

damian wayne

duke thomas

bruce wayne

helena wayne

christopher ward

francisco ramirez

robinbot

robintron

lance hart

anita jean

john grayson

talia kane

robzarro

barbara gordon (earth 37)

bruce wayne junior (earth 38)

clark wayne (earth 38)

cassandra (earth 118)

billy batson (the batman who laughs)

robin king (dark multiverse / king of pain)

matt(hew) mcginnis

drake winston

ricky (robin 3000)

tris plover (legends of the dead earth)

dexter dent

gan (elseworlds / beyond the white knight)

thomas wayne (elseworlds / robin 3000)

robert chang (digital justice)

marya (elseworlds / batman: i, joker)

daxton chill (we are robin)

isabella ortiz (we are robin)

dre cipriani (we are robin)

riko sheridan (we are robin)

fam im not going to lie all the we are robin kids were supposed to be in honourable mentions but i miscalculated how many robins were there when making my base and needed some more folks. i was making duke an exception anyways (because DUKE) so i just stretched that a little to be all the we are robin kids

robin (just imagine)

robin (earth 43)

robin ii (dark multiverse / crisis on infinite earths)

robin (possible futures / futures end)

robin (possible futures / batman: year 100)

robin (possible futures / dc one million)

robin (dc love is a battlefield)

that is!!! all of them in the drawing, i believe! (let me know if i missed any lol) i physically cannot tag them all because there are more than 30 of them and 30 tags is the limit, so ill be tagging the mainstream ones and just "robin"!

if youre curious why this all happened, its all because of lance. i gave that motherfucker PITY FANART but then the neurodivergence kicked in and i got attatched, and then i was scrolling through the robin disambiguation page and i just felt so so sad because do any of these robins have fanart!? does anyone ever draw them!?!? how can i give lance pity fanart when hes not even a real robin (i love you lance) and then Not draw all these robins!?!?!? so yeah i drew them. i still feel bad because i couldnt draw ALL of them but like i had to give myself a limit because im genuinely sorry but im NOT drawing dick grayson (earth-one), dick grayson (earth-two), dick grayson (new-earth), and dick grayson (prime-earth) because those are all of his versions from MAINSTREAM. not even alternate universes he has that many versions in MAINSTREAM. i would actually go into a fucking coma if i chose to draw ALL the robins.

[greenglowinspooks]

(DCxDP) The obligations of a rogue versus those of a parent (Pt. 3)

—

Tw: Vivisection mention, torture mention (GiW agent receiving), me not actually knowing how telegram works

Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually.

(Pt. 1 here) (Pt. 2 here) - (Pt. 4 here)

(Masterlist/subscription post)

—

It’s an average, ordinary afternoon in Gotham, and Jason is in hell.

Specifically, Jason is in hell because he’s been researching the GiW for the last week or so, ever since a cryptic message from Scarecrow of all people.

He still hasn’t gotten anything substantial out of it that Scarecrow hadn’t already provided. Most location data had been previously scrubbed from the database, weaponry details were apparently all stored physically, and the experiment logs seemed to be only accessible from within one of the bases, whose locations Jason did not have.

Apparently Babs and Tim were having similar issues with gathering information. He had sent a copy of the files over to them in a moment of weakness, but they were having the exact same results as him.

To make things worse, the GiW was more active than they had been previously, combing through Crime Alley and the rest of Gotham tirelessly. At least they weren’t harassing him anymore, he thought, but now he had even less of a clue what they wanted.

And to top it all off, the Joker had escaped Arkham a few days prior to Jason receiving Scarecrow’s note, and he still hadn’t done anything. That could only mean that he was planning something big, which meant more grief for Jason, because the clown was obsessed with him.

So yes, Jason wasn’t having the best week.

He got up from his computer, stretched, and walked over to the window.

The sky was Gotham’s usual grey, clouded with a toxic miasma made up of traditional pollutants and the aftermath of gas attacks both, which could generously be called ‘smog.’

The streets seemed busier than usual, or maybe that was just because Jason was having a hard time keeping his eyes focused.

With blurry vision and a dull ache in the back of his head, Jason paced through his apartment, going through everything he knew.

The GiW, or Ghost Investigation Ward, were part of a secret government project having to do with ‘ecto-entities,’ which were mostly made up of ghosts.

The GiW was able to kidnap and steal away anyone who was ‘ecto-contaminated’ to be dissected, and it was completely legal.

According to the non-censored patrol reports he was given, Jason himself was considered ecto-contaminated. So were Bruce, Damian, Steph, and Cass.

There were also several rogues that were in the same boat, but their names had been redacted, presumably by Scarecrow. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but he guessed it was either for leverage or privacy. Knowing Crane, it could be both.

Anything useful about the GiW seemed to be stored physically within their compounds, or on an operating system that couldn’t be accessed outside of certain areas.

Anything useful about ghosts was conveniently removed by Scarecrow.

And, lastly, he knew from capture logs that they had numerous captive ghosts which were definitely being experimented on. One of these ghosts was named Daniel, last name redacted, and had been turned over by his parents in return for allowing them to run their own experiments on the boy.

From what he could tell, it had been around fifty two days since he had been turned in.

Fifty two days of experimentation and dissection.

Jason had to find him.

But first, he had to find the locations of the GiW bases, and plan his entrance carefully. He couldn’t let them get away because of a simple mistake.

The only location data he had been able to find was on a picture of the boy, Daniel, a picture of a vigilante in a red suit, and a quick note left about Daniel which hadn’t been transferred into the main database.

The note was…

Jason had been around crime for a very, very long time. He understood it intimately, in a way most people would never hope to achieve.

He understood hatred, too.

And yet, the words in that note were almost incomprehensible to him.

They were mockery of a child in pain. A child that was not seen as human. A child that was seen as a threat, a monster.

The man had detailed the security surrounding the child being cut back. Apparently, the kid had some sort of sonic scream. They were removing the muzzle that inhibited it because he had screamed himself hoarse, and he couldn’t make a sound anymore.

He also mentioned that the kid was cut open at least once a day, sometimes multiple times. He was opened up, played with, and sewn back shut.

The man joked that they should just put a zipper on him, so they wouldn’t keep wasting their stitches.

Jason really, really wanted to kill that guy.

The metadata on the note traced back to a newly-bought building in Gotham’s financial district, while the photos both came from Amity Park, Illinois.

Amity Park, Illinois did not exist in any official capacity.

Tim, who had taken the Batplane to check the precise location listed in the metadata, had reported that there was a town there after all, and it was on complete media lockdown from the rest of the world. He hadn’t even been able to use Bat, Justice League, or Young Justice channels to message anyone outside of the city until he left.

Jason had checked the building in the financial district firsthand, and found that the man who had submitted the note had done so while resting on a patrol of the city. He seemed to go there often to avoid his superiors, and Jason found it easy enough to get the drop on him the third time around.

His advanced interrogation techniques hadn’t been enough to get the man to name any locations. Worse, the man definitely recognized Red Hood, and would definitely tell the rest of the GiW about what had happened as soon as he left.

So, Jason did something about that. He couldn’t kill him, unfortunately, so he did the next best thing.

The GiW sent him to a public hospital within a few hours of finding him with shattered hand bones, broken arms, and a throat with near-permanent damage. The man wouldn’t be able to speak for a month at least.

He might never write again.

Jason, having read the note over and over until the words stained the backs of his eyes, thought it was the least he deserved.

Jason sighed, stopping his pacing. He wasn’t getting anywhere with this. If anything, working himself up was only going to lower the chances of him magically coming to a realization about where the kid was or what in the hell was going on.

He walked into the kitchen, popped some leftovers into the microwave, and started them up.

Once they were done, he brought them out to his desk, intending to eat as he continued to work on the GiW case.

When he saw his screen, he froze.

Telegram had been opened to a new chat with someone he had never messaged before.

TooFine: who are you?

TooFine: why are you looking into the giw?

The messages were a couple of minutes old, probably sent while Jason was spiraling pacing. He just stared at the screen, dumbstruck.

Shakily, he responded.

RedDead: How the hell did you get my contact info

Whoever was on the other side of the screen paused for a second. Jason considered sending a quick text to Babs to tell her what was going on, but he decided that he could handle this by himself.

TooFine: got it from the backdoor I put into the giw system.

RedDead: Shit

TooFine: ok your turn

TooFine: why r u looking into the giw? seriously man

RedDead: I don’t have a single reason to tell you. Give me one and I might answer your questions

TooFine paused again. Clearly they both had issues trusting someone over the internet, and rightfully so. What they had both admitted to doing was incredibly illegal, and if someone turned them in, they would be in deep shit.

TooFine: ive been trying to take down the giw since it was created. I can help u if ur honest with me

RedDead: Oh yeah, because no one has ever lied to another person on the internet before

RedDead: But fine

RedDead: I’m looking into them because they’ve been shadowing me for over a month at this point, among other reasons

TooFine: other reasons?

Jason sighed. He shouldn’t have added that. He knew that the other guy would ask, but he said something anyways.

RedDead: They’ve got a kid. I don’t like it when people hurt kids

TooFine: Danny? he’s alive?

RedDead: From what I can tell

So he knew the kid. Or, at least, he was pretending to. It would make sense for him to be cagey about his intentions, and for him to be desperate enough to reach out.

TooFine: oh my god

TooFine: do you know what city? fuck

TooFine: fuck fuck fuck

TooFine: I need to find him man please

RedDead: He’s somewhere in Gotham

RedDead: I’ve been trying to find him for a week now but no dice. They keep everything important on separate servers

TooFine: listen man you’re a good hacker but you’re not as good as me. you need my help if we’re gonna find Danny

RedDead: Okay, what are you trying to get me to agree to?

TooFine: i’m coming to gotham and we’re going to meet up

RedDead: Hell no

RedDead: Stranger danger

TooFine: if I tell u who I am will you say yes

RedDead: ?? How am I supposed to verify if you’re telling the truth

TooFine then sent him what seemed to be a selfie. Jason’s jaw dropped at the kid’s sheer audacity.

RedDead: There’s something seriously wrong with you

TooFine: my name is Tucker Foley. i live in amity park. i’m in 10th grade

RedDead: ???????? WHAT THE HELL

TooFine: i can send u my address too

RedDead: PLEASE DON’T??

RedDead: WHAT’S YOUR FUCKING DAMAGE? DON’T DOXX YOURSELF TO ME

RedDead: WHAT IF I WANTED TO KILL YOU OR SOMETHING? WHAT IF I WAS A FED

TooFine: i have to take that chance.

TooFine: Danny is my best friend. they’ve had him for over a month and no one’s doing anything to help. mr. Lancer was the only one who cared and he gave up after they blackmailed him

TooFine: they’ve had him for OVER A MONTH. I THOUGHT HE WAS DEAD.

TooFine: Sam and Jazz and I are coming to gotham and we’re going to find him no matter what it takes

TooFine: you have to help us

Jason considered, for a second, the choices he’d made in his life that had led up to this moment. He also considered, if he was in this kid’s position at his age, if he would be doing the same.

He decided to throw the kid a bone.

RedDead: [4735.jpg]

TooFine: HUH

RedDead: I’m guessing you know me

TooFine: RED HOOD??????

RedDead: No I’m just a very dedicated LARPer

TooFine: am i gonna die for Danny right now

RedDead: If I were literally anyone else, probably

RedDead: But no, you’re not. I’m gonna help you find your friend

TooFine: your username is red dead and you’re. yeah ok

RedDead: Oh come on, it’s funny

TooFine: Danny would love you

RedDead: So Danny clearly has great taste in jokes

TooFine: nope. literally loves puns and wordplay

RedDead: Nevermind

They both paused for a second. Then, Jason had a thought.

RedDead: Wait you’re in the 10th grade and you’re hacking into government databases?

TooFine: please don’t tell my parents.

RedDead: And how are you supposed to explain a sudden vacation to Gotham to your parents?

TooFine: wait so you’ll help me?

RedDead: I really hate to say it but I’m not the best at hacking, and my usual help is busy trying to track down the Joker. So, yep, we’re teaming up

TooFine: LET’S GOOOOOO

RedDead: God. I’m asking a 16 year old to help me take down a government agency and save another 16 year old

RedDead: I feel like the bat

TooFine: oh my god this is awesome. Danny is gonna flip when the actual real-life Red Hood comes to save him.

RedDead: I already regret this

TooFine: too late.

TooFine: btw do u have any place for 2 teenagers and 1 adult teenager to stay in gotham? preferably without dying but yknow.

Jason groaned. He was really, really gonna regret this, and he knew it.

Still, the alternative was some overeager kid dragging two other idiots to Gotham to find their friend and getting themselves killed. At least this way he’d have help, and damn good help at that.

He really was turning into the Bat, wasn’t he?

—

[jellyfishsthings]

Debugging My Heart

navigation , dc navigation

WARNINGS: Tim's and reader's awkwardness

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

The hum of the server room was a constant lullaby, a white noise symphony that usually soothed me. But tonight, it was grating. Thirty-eight hours. Thirty-eight hours since Tim had last closed his eyes, a feat of endurance that bordered on the superhuman, even for him. He was hunched over his monitors, a battlefield of code illuminated on his face, battling a WayneTech database breach like a digital knight errant.

Your mission was simple: caffeine delivery. You approached cautiously, two steaming mugs in hand, the aroma of dark roast cutting through the sterile air. He didn't acknowledge me, his focus so laser-sharp it felt tangible. You placed one mug within his reach, the ceramic clinking softly against the metal desk.

"Here," You murmured, settling into the chair beside him. "You look like you could use a jumpstart."

He grunted, eyes still glued to the screen. Without looking, he reached out, his fingers brushing yours as he took the mug. Then, still engrossed in his work, he extended a flash drive towards me. "Be careful with that." His voice was raspy, edged with exhaustion.

"Got it, baby genius," You replied absentmindedly, already turning to plug the drive into your own laptop.

The world seemed to stop.

Tim froze. Every line of his posture, usually a study in controlled tension, became rigid. He turned, agonizingly slowly, his head pivoting as if it weighed a ton. The glow of the monitor painted his face in stark relief, highlighting the dark circles under his eyes and the sudden, almost comical, bewilderment etched on his features.

"Did you just call me—?" The question hung in the air, thick with a mixture of disbelief and, dare you say, hope?

Your internal monologue screeched to a halt. Your brain, usually a whirring engine of witty comebacks and strategic planning, stalled. Panic bloomed in your chest, a sudden, unwelcome flower. You were doomed.

"I—uh—" Your tongue felt thick and clumsy. Think, you stupid girl, think! "I was talking to the driver."

The lie was pathetic. So transparent, it was practically see-through. You winced inwardly. You imagined the flash drive, a humble repository of data, suddenly imbued with sentience and demanding to be addressed with terms of endearment. It was ridiculous.

He stared. Just stared. Those intense blue eyes, usually so focused and sharp, were wide with incredulity, bordering on amusement. You could practically hear the gears turning in his brilliant mind, dissecting your utterly unconvincing excuse.

Then, the corner of his mouth twitched. A faint blush crept up his neck, staining his pale skin a delicate pink. It was a beautiful, unexpected, and utterly disarming sight.

"You're the worst liar I've ever met," he finally said, his voice a low murmur, laced with something You couldn't quite decipher. Was that… fondness?

Your cheeks burned. You wanted the earth to open up and swallow you whole. You wanted to rewind time and censor the offending words before they ever escaped your lips. But it was too late. The damage was done.

"Sorry," You mumbled, avoiding his gaze.

He didn't reply, turning back to his monitors. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. You busied myself with the task at hand, transferring the data from the flash drive, your fingers clumsy and uncoordinated. Every now and then, You risked a glance at Tim. He remained absorbed in his work, but the blush lingered, a subtle testament to the awkward, adorable moment we had just shared.

The next week was… interesting. You tried to act normal, to pretend that the "baby genius" incident had never happened. But the memory lingered, a persistent hum in the back of your mind, a constant reminder of your verbal slip-up and Tim's unexpected reaction.

He, surprisingly, didn't bring it up. He was polite, professional, and infuriatingly normal. You started to wonder if you had imagined the blush, the flicker of surprise in his eyes. Maybe you had simply projected your own… feelings… onto the situation. The thought was both disappointing and relieving.

Then, one day, you arrived at your desk to find a new addition to your workspace. A ceramic mug. Standard issue WayneTech, except for one crucial detail. Scrawled across the front, in Tim's unmistakable handwriting, were two words: "Baby Genius's Assistant."

Your heart skipped a beat. He remembered. He hadn't forgotten. He had, in his own quiet, awkward way, acknowledged the moment, embraced the absurdity.

You picked up the mug, tracing the letters with your fingertip. A smile bloomed on your face, involuntary and genuine.

"Cute," You murmured, turning to find him hovering nearby, a stack of files in his arms.

He avoided eye contact, his ears turning a telltale shade of pink. "Just… thought you might want a designated mug."

"Oh, I do," You replied, your voice laced with amusement. "Thank you… baby genius."

He froze, just like before. The blush returned, even more vibrant this time. He opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it. He just shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips, and hurried away.

That was it. The beginning of our inside joke. A shared secret, born from an accidental endearment and a moment of pure, unadulterated awkwardness.

And every time you said it, every time you saw that blush creep up his neck, you knew. This was more than just a shared joke. This was the slow, hesitant blossoming of something more. Something soft, something sweet, something… us. And you couldn't wait to see where it would lead. Even if it meant enduring a few more awkward silences and stolen glances along the way. After all, the best things are worth waiting for, right? Especially when they involve a baby genius with a penchant for blushing.

[complete]

Our womanhood is not an opinion to be debated: it is real

Words P. Eldridge

On 16 April, the UK Supreme Court moved to exclude trans women from legal definitions of womanhood: a decision which shocked trans and LGBTQIA+ communities across the UK. Let's be clear, without any caveats: regardless of what the law says, trans women are women, trans men are men and non-binary people exist.

Below, one writer pens a moving call to arms following the devastating ruling.

We do not need the permission of courts or pundits or politicians. We do not require validation from panels, party manifestos, or editorial columns. Our womanhood is not contingent on your consensus. It is not open for discussion. It is not up for democratic vote. It is not yours to approve. It is ours: lived, sacred, defiant.

Our womanhood is not an opinion to be debated. It is not a position on a talk show, a point of controversy in a manifesto, or a hypothetical for white men in robes to argue about. It is real. It is felt in our bones, in our blood, in every moment we step out the door and dare to exist anyway. It is a lived truth, tested by fire, carried with scars, and proclaimed with every breath we have left.

"You do not get to legislate our lives like we are clutter in the margins of your cis histories"

You do not get to redefine us out of existence. You do not get to write policy that renders us statistical ghosts, then feign neutrality. You do not get to draw a red pen through our lives and call it feminism. You do not get to control the narrative and pretend it’s science. You do not get to kill us – through systems, through silence, through neglect – and then misname us on our gravestones as if we weren’t here at all.

You do not get to dictate the terms of our survival. You do not get to decide who is “woman enough” to be protected from violence. You do not get to weaponise biology as if it were a gun you could point at our identities. You do not get to legislate our lives like we are clutter in the margins of your cis histories.

We will not let you erase us.

We are not your rhetorical device. We are not your institutional afterthought. We are not tokens. We are not costumes. We are not missteps or misunderstandings or mistakes. We are not some philosophical edge case in your tired debate about the “limits” of inclusion. We are not your moral panic. We are not your social experiment. We are not the enemy.

We are women.

Not because a government database agrees. Not because a court has ratified our humanity. But because we say so. Because we live it. Because we have always been. Because we carved space for ourselves in a world that left none.

"To every cis person reading this: now is your moment. Choose your role in this history"

And we are women in the fullest, richest, most radical sense. We are women who’ve had to build our womanhood in the ruins of state neglect, in the aftermath of family rejection, under the weight of public scorn. We are women who have loved each other through grief and terror. We are women who have taught ourselves how to survive when survival was not guaranteed. We are women who mourn every sister lost and carry their names into every room we enter.

We are women who do not apologise.

We are women who will not make ourselves smaller so that you can feel safe in your ignorance. We will not dilute our identities into something more palatable for your sensibilities. We will not shrink our truths to fit within the boundaries of your institutions. If you cannot stretch your understanding of womanhood to include us, that is a failure of your imagination, not our legitimacy.

We are women.

And no court, no government, no right-wing columnist, no bitter social media troll can take that from us. Not today. Not ever.

We are women, and we do not need your fucking permission to exist. https://magazine.gaytimes.com/our-womanhood-is-not-an-opinion-to-be-debated-it-is-real/

[stereax]

CapFriendly Alternative Sites MegaPost

(Last update: 07/27 - added CapSized.)

As we are all likely aware by now, the Washington Capitals have decided to ruin everyone's lives by purchasing and sunsetting CapFriendly. The site has gone dark as of July 10, 2024.

While the hockey community has experienced a similar loss before, with the death of Matthew Wuest and the subsequent loss of CapGeek, this is a markedly different situation that sets a troubling precedent - namely, that freely usable, public NHL data is now available to the highest bidder, who can then revoke access to the data at a minute's notice. Two things can coexist: we can be happy for the makers of CapFriendly that they are being compensated well for their services while also scorning the Washington Capitals organization for choosing to turn off CapFriendly entirely.

Under the cut, please find a list of free CapFriendly alternatives and other websites that contain NHL data. (In some cases, they are mostly free - however, most/all important information for lay analysis is available for free.) This list is dynamic and taking suggestions, so please feel free to send me any websites you find at @stereax and check the original post for updates!

PART 1: SALARY CAP TRACKERS

PuckPedia: The New CapFriendly

PuckPedia is the closest replacement to CapFriendly currently available. It contains salary cap information for all teams and players, draft pick information, several calculators including a buyout calculator and a pick value calculator, agent information, and more. They also run PuckDoku! The biggest strike against PuckPedia is its lack of simulators (Armchair GM, mock draft, or trade simulators); however, in the wake of the CapFriendly news, PuckPedia shared that an Armchair GM simulator is under active development. 07/05 Update: PuckGM is here! You can also react to prospective PuckGMs (thumbs up, thumbs down, laugh, think emojis).

CapSized: Labor of Love

Referred to me by @nonslipdoormat and billed as a "solo female developer's project" (nonslipdoormat IS said developer!), CapSized is a site that's designed similarly to CapFriendly. It has some features other sites lack, such as trade histories going back to 2003 (with some entries as old as 1964!) and a detailed transactions page again stretching YEARS into the past. The more you poke around, the more cool things you uncover. Its primary purpose is to be a "visual database", but calculators and an NHL GM mode are on the list of future additions. I'll be dead honest, I think this is my favorite cap-checker site because of all the extra utilities. Super excited to see where this project goes!

Referred to me by @reavenedges-lies. A "baby site" that has some of the basics of salary cap info, plus a buyout calculator, qualifying offer calculator, and trade proposal maker. The trade proposal maker is prone to error and seems to only be useful for graphics. It can be a useful site for some, but it would not be my first choice.

CapWages: CapFriendly Lite

Another alternative to PuckPedia that mimics CapFriendly in design and is more intuitive for users going directly from CapFriendly to an alternative site. Like PuckPedia, it now features a GM mode, but the GM mode is in beta and is not fully functional (it only shows contracts currently existing at the NHL level). Nevertheless, for checking salary cap info, it is very good and I recommend it. Also now has a buyout calculator.

CapSpace: Young Gun

BenchWarmers: Greenhorn

Similar to CapSpace but perhaps a little better in the design department. I like how, if you don't have an account, it acts like you're Kyle Dubas and has you watching Toronto and Carolina. Has a few neat stats (like "core four" which shows how much the four most expensive players are making) that I haven't seen easily replicated on other sites, but functionality is rather limited outside of that, which is why it's also not my first choice.

Spotrac: Another Salary Cap Checker

An alternative to PuckPedia for salary cap information. However, it lacks much of the information and functionality of PuckPedia or most other sites listed here.

PART 2: ADVANCED STATS

NaturalStatTrick: The Holy Grail of Stats

NaturalStatTrick, or NatStat for short, is a site that contains just about any stat you can think of for any team or player. It has a learning curve but is generally understood to be the most reliable stat tracker available for free. You can even view stats for individual games on it!

MoneyPuck: DTWoMeter and More

You know it from the Deserve-to-Win-o-Meter or its playoff odds rings, but MoneyPuck has a lot of useful data as well if you do a little browsing. Generally, I've heard that MoneyPuck is less accurate than NatStat, but is easier to use, especially on mobile.

HockeyViz: "If I Ever Sell, I Failed"

Home of the Simple Hockey Charts, HockeyViz has a visual for just about every stat out there. You've almost certainly seen some of them before. Most of them are completely free to the public! They're super useful for visualizing stats as more than "just numbers", allowing you to see exactly WHERE things are happening on the ice.

HockeyStatCards: GameScore Kings

Again, you've probably seen HockeyStatCards's GameScore charts. Using data from NatStat (see above) and an algorithm created by Dom Luszczyszyn, it provides a simple GameScore number that tells you whether a player is having a positive or negative impact on the ice for every game in the NHL.

PART 3: SPECIALIZED SITES

NHL Armchair GM: Building Rosters

This site allows you to Armchair GM a roster. Notably, it has a steeper learning curve than CapFriendly and does not have a forum or other way to easily save and publicize your Armchair GM moves. However, it can be useful to make Armchair GMs and have visuals for them.

NHL Entry Draft: With the First Overall Pick...

This site contains a ton of draft resources, from a mock draft simulator to scouting reports. Definitely a useful site for those who are interested in the entry draft. I've seen a couple of mock draft sites, but this one seems to have by far the easiest and arguably most expansive way to use it.

NHL Injury Viz: Rulers of LTIR

Here, you can explore the relationship between the injuries of players, their cap hits, and how teams did without them. Very useful when you're arguing that a certain player going down doomed the team.

PART 4: MORE TYPES OF DATA

HockeyReference: The Good Old Days

Hockey Reference is best used for surface level data about older players. It has some trivia sections as well, for if you ever wanted to know all players wearing certain jersey numbers, sharing a certain birthday, or hailing from Alaska.

EliteProspects: Every League Imaginable

Want to know the roster of a third-tier league in Quebec? EliteProspects has you covered. Literally every league on the face of the Earth, currently existing and not, EliteProspects has info on. Any player you can possibly name, EliteProspects has their stats from atom hockey all the way to the end of their career.

HockeyDB: Another Spot for Stats

HockeyDB, referred to me by @reavenedges-lies, is another solid site for looking up basic hockey stats. Also has a ton of leagues, similar to EliteProspects. Has a hockey card feature as well that shows you cards featuring the player you've looked up, which is neat!

PART 5: FORUMS

HFBoards: Hockey Forums

Probably the most well-known hockey forum out there. If you want to talk puck on a more forum-like site, similar to CapFriendly's forums, this is the one for you.

PART 6: CAPFRIENDLY ARCHIVES

SergeiFyodorov's CapFriendly FAQ Drive

Curated by @sergeifyodorov. Originally posted here and sent to me by @fellowshipofthegay. Archives of the CapFriendly FAQs!

Got a site that's not listed here? Let me know at @stereax and I'll add it! Remember: While CapFriendly may be going away, hockey analysis is here to stay!

[clementineinn]

everglow, a head full of dreams

abstract: after a long interpol liaison assignment overseas, Y/N finally returns to the BAU. the day is filled with warmth, laughter, and homecoming — but for spencer reid, there’s an ache that can’t be ignored any longer. he’s loved her from the moment before she left — and now that she’s back, he knows he can’t keep it buried. not for another second.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)

genre: fluff

note: i love yearning, slow burn spencer, so bear with me as i continuously churn out these fluffy stories. honestly not too sure how i feel about this one, maybe i'll continue the story? idk. i'm not really liking how it turned out but it might just be because i've reread it too many times, but i just wanted to post it bc i'm having writer's block!!!! kinda struggling with my writing rn, UGH! but anyways, as always, please enjoy, even though i just went on a pessimistic rant lol.

It was late morning, and the bullpen at Quantico hummed with a quiet, restless energy — the kind that filled the air when something was about to happen, though no one quite knew what.

Sunlight slanted in through the high windows, striping the desks in warm gold and shadow. The low murmur of conversation drifted through the space, broken now and then by the faint clatter of a mug being set down, the rustle of papers, the soft mechanical hum of the printer across the room.

Hotch had sent out a clipped message that morning — unexpected.

Conference. 10:30.

No urgent case file attached. No coded pre-brief from JJ. Nothing from Garcia’s terminal. Just that — cool and spare. Enough to spark curiosity like static.

Now, ten minutes before the hour, the bullpen had begun to subtly shift — that unspoken way the team always seemed to gather when the center of gravity tipped toward something new.

Coffee cups in hand, files forgotten, they found themselves orbiting naturally toward Spencer’s desk — the usual center point in moments like these.

Morgan leaned one hip against the edge of the desk, twirling a pen between his fingers. Emily settled nearby, her chair tipped back just slightly, one boot hooked around the leg. JJ arrived with a soft thump of her file folder, setting it down before crossing her arms in curiosity. Garcia, bright-eyed and colorful, perched on the corner with a rustle of fabric and the faint vanilla-sugar scent of her latest perfume.

And in the middle of it all — Spencer sat, cardigan sleeves pushed to his elbows, a familiar fountain pen resting idly between his fingers. His notebooks lay open before him — unscribbled, forgotten — as his gaze drifted, unfocused, somewhere far beyond the present conversation.

Above them, the second-story mezzanine stood quiet. No sign of Hotch yet.

The bullpen breathed with waiting — something in the stillness, in the shifting glances, in the undercurrent of soft voices and quiet anticipation, as if the room itself held its breath for whatever would come next.

Garcia, bright-eyed and luminous in a swirl of violet silk, leaned one hip with theatrical flair against the edge of Spencer’s desk, mirroring Morgan’s easy stance. In one hand she held a paper cup, its pale surface scattered with tiny pink hearts, steam curling lazily from the lid like the last breath of a spell.

“I’m telling you,” she declared, eyes wide with certainty, “this is definitely about new equipment. Or tech upgrades. Maybe he’s finally letting me overhaul the databases.”

Morgan let out a low chuckle, stretching back in his chair with casual grace, arms folded across his broad chest. A slow shake of his head, eyes gleaming.

“Come on, baby girl — Hotch wouldn’t be this mysterious over hard drives.”

Emily smirked over the rim of her coffee cup, shoulders relaxed, dark lashes catching the late-morning light.

“Maybe it’s a new recruit,” she mused, voice teasing. “Or budget talks. Or... mandatory wellness seminars.”

A collective groan rose from the little circle.

“If it’s more wellness training,” Rossi intoned dryly from his perch nearby — the morning’s Washington Post still folded under one arm — “I’m transferring to cybercrimes.” But the faint, knowing glint in his eyes gave him away.

JJ shook her head, blond waves falling over one shoulder as she gave a rueful smile. 

“He wouldn’t pull us all in just for that.”

Spencer listened — or seemed to — gaze flicking now and then to Morgan, to Garcia’s flurry of color, to Emily’s grin over her coffee. The low rhythm of voices surrounded him, bright and familiar. He heard each word, each teasing lilt — but it was as though the sound reached him through a thin layer of water, slow and distant.

Because beneath it all — beneath the warmth of the room, beneath the soft tap of heels on tile and the rustle of paper — his thoughts circled, always, to her.

Even now — especially now — everything seemed to spiral back to her.

How many months since she’d left? He’d counted them at first, marked the weeks in the margins of his calendar, tracked deployments and return dates like a ritual. Eventually, the numbers blurred — but the ache never dulled.

He caught himself doing it still — absent, distracted in moments like this — wondering what city she was in now. Whether she was safe. Whether she missed them.

Whether she thought of him.

A familiar weight settled in his chest — low and constant, the shape of missing her. He smoothed it down the way he always did, fingers tightening briefly on the pen.

At that moment, Garcia’s voice rang brightly through the air:  “If this is a team restructure meeting, I swear I will riot. Peacefully. In glitter.”

Spencer blinked — half-smiling despite himself. Without looking up from the pen, he murmured softly, voice low and dry: “I’m fairly certain the Bureau has policies against both glitter and riots.”

Morgan let out a low chuckle. “See? Even the good doctor’s ready to shut you down, baby girl.”

That pulled a faint, crooked smile from Spencer — the corners of his mouth lifting, then fading.

Garcia pressed a dramatic hand to her chest. “So much logic in one room. It’s exhausting.”

The conversation drifted on — light, easy.

Spencer leaned back in his chair, gaze resting somewhere beyond the curve of the room — past the windows, past the moment.

“Where is Hotch, anyway?” Morgan asked, glancing toward the mezzanine — one brow lifted, voice curling with curiosity.

The question hovered in the air — unanswered — as the little circle fell into a brief pause.

And then —

The elevator chimed.

Soft — an ordinary sound, easily lost in the low hum of the bullpen — but in that moment, it seemed to echo just a fraction longer than usual. A faint, suspended note, bright against the stillness.

No one moved at first. No one looked.

And then — footsteps.

Measured. Unhurried. The familiar cadence of heels on tile — a crisp, rhythmic sound that drifted through the open space with almost hypnotic clarity.

It was a sound they all knew — had known. A sound that once threaded through their days so easily it hardly registered at all.

Until it had been gone.

And now — now it returned — unmistakable.

Spencer’s breath caught.

Before he quite realized it, his gaze lifted — drawn instinctively across the bullpen, past the edge of his desk, toward the entryway — toward the source of that sound.

And there — framed in the soft wash of light from the corridor beyond — she stood.

For a moment, the entire bullpen seemed to still. The air shifted — the edges of the room blurring faintly, as though the world had drawn a breath and forgotten to release it.

She moved forward — unhurried, composed — the easy grace of someone who had walked this path a thousand times before.

Her hair — soft, undone, loose in a way that seemed both effortless and deliberate — brushed her shoulders in a gentle wave. The delicate planes of her face caught the light — the elegant slope of her nose, the soft curve of her cheek, the fullness of her mouth touched with the faintest flush of rose. Her lashes cast fine shadows against her skin.

And her eyes — God, her eyes — quiet and clear and steady, the kind of gaze that could both undo and anchor a man. There was a knowing there — something older, softer, as though she had seen too much and still chosen gentleness.

She wore simple, perfect lines — a fitted black knit top that framed her collarbones with spare elegance, sleeves pushed just past her wrists. Slate-gray slacks, soft in their drape, skimming long legs with easy movement. Black low heels, no louder than a sigh against the tile.

No badge, no blazer, no ostentation — just her.

And in that moment — her presence filled the room more fully than any arrival could.

The hum of the bullpen seemed to fall away — voices dimming, motion pausing, as if drawn into the quiet gravity of her entrance.

Spencer’s breath caught — sharp in his chest — and for one fragile second, he could do nothing but look.

She’s here.

She tilted her head faintly, one brow lifting in the subtlest tease — mouth curving with a flicker of amusement.

“You guys always this jumpy in the mornings?”

For a single breath — no one moved.

It was as if the air itself had thinned — caught somewhere between heartbeats.

Then — the spell broke.

A bright, delighted gasp: “Oh my god — Y/N!”

Garcia was the first to move — coffee nearly forgotten, her cup teetering dangerously on the edge of Spencer’s desk as she flew forward in a whirl of color and perfume.

Before anyone could so much as blink, she had Y/N wrapped in a fierce, breathless hug — arms tight, voice bubbling over.

“You didn’t tell us—!”

Emily was close behind, laughter rising as she caught Y/N’s other arm in a quick pull, drawing her in.

“How long— when— what—?” JJ’s voice chimed through the tangle of greetings, her smile wide and bright as she reached in mid-hug, the words tumbling over themselves in joy.

And then — Morgan.

A deep, familiar whoop split the air as he strode forward, easy grin wide, hands outstretched. Without hesitation, he swept Y/N off her feet — a half-spin, effortless and exuberant.

“Look who’s back in the big leagues!”

The bullpen rippled with warmth — the sound of it filling every corner.

Even Rossi — leaning back against the edge of a nearby desk, arms folded with casual grace — let a rare smile soften his features.

“It’s about time,” he said, voice low but warmly sincere.

The bullpen bloomed with joy — wide and irrepressible, the kind of warmth that filled a room from the inside out. It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t polite. It was the deep, unguarded welcome reserved for one of their own — a missing piece returned to its place.

Voices overlapped, laughter spilling into the air. The small crowd folded around her in an instant — hands reaching, arms pulling her close, greetings tumbling over one another in the rush to be heard.

Everyone — except Spencer.

He stood more slowly — as though the very act of moving had weight. His legs felt strangely unsteady beneath him, breath caught somewhere in his chest. A wild, heady thrum of blood rushed in his ears — the rhythm of a heart that couldn’t quite catch up to the moment. For one long second, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. His mouth opened, then closed again — words crowding his throat, too many all at once, none of them enough.

She was here.

Not an echo through Garcia’s screen. Not a line of text in a quiet after-hours message. Not a passing update on some distant, classified case.

Here.

And for one dizzy, breathless beat — all he could do was stare. As though the very sight of her might dissolve if he blinked too fast — a trick of the light, too fragile to trust.

She glanced up — mid-hug with Garcia, arms still looped around her friend’s shoulders — a bright laugh just beginning to bloom at the corner of her mouth.

And then — her gaze caught his. Across the distance, across the bright scatter of voices, the blur of motion — her eyes found Spencer’s.

The shift was immediate.

Something in her expression gentled — softened at the edges, the brightness folding inward to something quieter, deeper. A warmth that seemed to bloom from beneath the surface. Her smile changed — not the easy grin she’d offered to the others, not the familiar humor of old camaraderie — but something softer. More fragile. The kind of smile meant for only one person in the room.

For a heartbeat, maybe longer, the space between them narrowed to nothing at all.

The background dissolved — voices falling away, color blurring at the edges. The bustling light of the bullpen dimmed to a quiet hum — as though the world itself had drawn in its breath, suspended between one moment and the next.

Just her. Just him.

And in her eyes: something unspoken.

I’m here. I came back.

Spencer’s heart wrenched. The force of it nearly staggered him.

He couldn’t look away.

Before he could so much as move — before breath returned to his lungs — another figure stepped into the frame: Hotch. Calm, composed, steady as a metronome — dark suit sharp against the light, file tucked under one arm. He came to stand at her side — his presence as grounding as it had always been — and with a faint nod, addressed the gathered team.

“Agent Y/N,” he said, voice low but carrying, “has officially requested reassignment back to the BAU.” A pause — the barest flicker of something like approval in his eyes — then, evenly: “She’ll be rejoining the team, effective today.”

For one suspended second — stillness. A collective breath.

And then — the room erupted.

“Finally!” Garcia all but squealed, hands clapping together, her whole face alight with joy.

Emily grinned wide, shaking her head with mock outrage. “And you were going to let us find out like this?”

JJ let out a bright laugh, bumping shoulders with Morgan. “Unbelievable. You’re sneaky.”

Morgan crossed his arms with a wide grin. “About time. We were getting boring without you.”

Even Rossi’s low chuckle threaded through the air: “Welcome home.”

Hotch, unmoved by the sudden swell of sound, allowed a small lift of his brow — the faintest suggestion of a smile — before turning his gaze toward Y/N once more.

“It’s good to have you back,” he said quietly.

But Spencer barely heard it.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t tear his gaze from hers.

As though some small, stubborn part of him feared that if he blinked — if he looked away for even a second — she might vanish once more into the space between then and now.

The day unfolded like sunlight through an open window — slow at first, golden, weightless — then all at once.

Outside, the early hours of spring had burned away to a mild, sunlit morning. Bright ribbons of light stretched long across the floor, spilling in from the tall windows, catching motes of dust in the air like tiny, drifting stars. The warmth of it soaked into the bones of the old building — rising from the tile, softening the edges of desks and chairs, gilding stray papers and forgotten coffee mugs with an amber sheen.

And within it all — threaded through light and shadow alike — there was something more.

A hum. A charge. The quiet, unmistakable thrum of happiness — of something righting itself after having tilted off balance for far too long.

She was back.

And with her — the whole rhythm of the day seemed brighter, lighter.

Laughter rose more easily. Conversations wove through the air in fluid threads. Even the usual shuffle of agents passing through the halls seemed softened — as though some unseen weight had lifted from the walls.

For Spencer — it was almost too much.

Too much brightness after too long in the dark. Too much warmth against the old familiar ache that lived in his ribs.

But he breathed it in all the same — heart unsteady, gaze drawn toward her again and again — as though some deep part of him still feared this might all dissolve if he dared look away.

Everywhere she moved, the team seemed to orbit her — drawn instinctively as if by some invisible current.

Wherever Y/N stood — at her desk, by the break room, pausing near a file cabinet — small constellations of conversation formed around her, shifting and bright.

JJ had practically whisked her away into the break room first — one arm looped through hers, mock-stern, laughing. “Alright — details. Now. We’ve been in the dark for months.”

Morgan kept appearing — popping around corners, leaning casually in doorframes — grinning wide, voice rich with teasing questions: “So what do those top-secret types eat for breakfast, huh? Bet it’s not the powdered eggs they give us here.”

Rossi, ever composed, had stepped in with a quiet smile — fingers curling easily around the handle of the old glass carafe — pouring her coffee as though it were ritual, timeless. “Thought you might want the real thing,” he’d said, eyes warm.

Garcia swept in and out like a breeze — a box of cupcakes balanced in one hand, her phone in the other — declaring to anyone who would listen that it was now an unofficial welcome-home party, and she expected attendance.

And Emily — bright and laughing — finally caught her in a loose side hug, her voice low and warm against the hum of the room: “You look good. International life suits you.”

Spencer lingered nearby — his notebook open in front of him, pen resting between his fingers — though the last entry on the page trailed off mid-sentence, the ink gone dry twenty minutes ago.

He hadn’t noticed.

She was here.

Not a name in passing. Not a quiet message on Garcia’s screen. Not a blurred update buried in Interpol case logs he shouldn’t have checked so often. Not a digital echo, a secondhand scrap of her voice carried through someone else’s words.

Just — here.

Breathing the same air. Moving through the light. Smiling — real, present — no longer half a world away.

And he — he could hardly breathe around it.

The bullpen seemed to glow at the edges — bright and diffuse — as though the sunlight itself had shifted toward her, drawn in quiet orbit by the warmth of her presence. It spilled across the floor in long, drowsy ribbons — catching the glint of polished nameplates, skimming across the soft grain of well-worn desks, gilding the corners of open files and stray paperclips with delicate threads of gold. Dust drifted lazily in the beams — small, weightless things that turned and tumbled as if the very air had changed its shape around her.

And through it all — winding between light and shadow — the low hum of voices moved like music. Familiar. Intimate. Soft with happiness. A language made not of words, but of glances and smiles and the deep, unspoken ease of being home again.

Spencer caught fragments of conversation as they wove past him, his gaze straying again and again toward where she stood — framed by the others, light in her hair.

“Yeah — Interpol Liaison Assignment. Mostly Europe. A lot of long-term cases, international consults... more airports than I care to remember.”

Her voice — the sound of it — sent a fresh ache through his ribs.

“It was good work,” she added after a pause, voice dipping quieter, smile softening. Her gaze drifted for a moment, something wistful in her expression.

“But…” A breath. “…I missed this. All of you.”

Across the circle, Morgan grinned — arms folded, voice warm with easy affection.

“Well — our gain,” he said. “You kept climbing the ladder — now we get to brag about you.”

Y/N laughed lightly. “Not much ladder left to climb. I just wanted to come home.”

Home. The word twisted something in Spencer’s chest.

He hadn’t spoken to her yet — not really.

Just that one glance — in the doorway, in the hush before the others had rushed forward — the quiet pull of her gaze catching his across the room. A single moment — fragile as spun glass — now tucked carefully away behind his ribs. Since then, with the bullpen alive around her, voices bright, old rhythms rekindled — he had kept to the edges. Watching. Wanting.

Too much, too soon — the ache of it caught behind his breath, impossible to name.

At one point, Y/N stepped out of the break room — a fresh coffee cradled between her palms, steam curling soft and white into the sunlit air. She moved with that same easy grace — loose-limbed, quietly self-possessed — a familiar rhythm that made Spencer’s chest ache. Without seeming to notice, her path angled toward his desk — a pause, a breath of stillness in the bright hum of the room.

Their eyes met. This time — it lingered. A second. A little more. Something deeper passed between them — not loud, not declarative — but certain all the same.

“Hey,” she said softly, voice warm — low enough that it seemed meant for only him.

Spencer looked up — breath catching, heart kicking against his ribs.

He opened his mouth — found it dry. He swallowed — forced a breath past the tightness in his chest. “Hey,” he managed, voice quiet. “Welcome back.”

Her smile tilted — slow, fond, something in it that caught and held. “Thanks.”

She looked — for one flicker of a moment — as though she might say more. Her gaze lingered, lips parting —

But just then, Garcia swept through the room in a swirl of bright fabric, trailing a thin tangle of ribbons in one hand, announcing something about cupcake displays — and the moment scattered like leaves in a breeze.

The ache settled deeper in Spencer’s ribs — warm and heavy, like sunlight pooling in a place long starved of light.

He knew this day was for them — for all of them. For the team, the laughter, the easy folding back into old rhythms. It wasn’t the time to pull her aside. Not yet. And yet —

The hours drifted by in waves of brightness — voices and footfalls and the soft hush of papers moving beneath careful hands — and all through it, he found himself looking up without meaning to. 

Again and again — as though the very air in the room carried her shape.

The sound of her laugh — low, rich, colored by something softer now. The shape of her voice weaving through conversations — a thread of familiar music. The curve of her mouth when she teased Morgan, the glint in her eye when she nudged Emily mid-joke. The easy tilt of her head, the slight catch of her hair at her shoulder as she moved.

The bullpen seemed to hum at the edges — bright with a different kind of light — as though her return had altered the very current of the space.

And Spencer — he remembered every version of her.

The sharp, brilliant one who could outthink anyone in the room. The quiet one, thoughtful between cases, always half-smiling over the rim of her mug. The steady presence by his side on late nights when the hours blurred.

And this — this new version now — was both familiar and new. Wiser. Sharper at the edges. But still — her.

And he — he was still him.

Still caught somewhere between the wanting and the fear — between the pull of everything unsaid and the weight of years carried alone.

The words pressed at him like a tide — slow and relentless.

I loved you before you left. I love you still. I waited.

But for now — he only watched.

The day drifted into late afternoon — the kind of soft, golden hour when the light slants lower and time seems to slow. 

Sunlight stretched long across the floor, warmer now — honeyed gold pooling between the desks, casting soft-edged shadows across the walls. The hum of conversation had quieted to something looser, more languid — voices dipping, movements slower in the mellow light. 

Files had been filed, coffee cups rinsed and set in neat rows along the counter.

JJ glanced at the clock with a reluctant sigh, gathering her things. “Henry’s got soccer this evening,” she said, looping her scarf around her neck. “But I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

Morgan slung his bag over one shoulder, lingering a beat longer than usual. “You sure you don’t want a ride?” he asked. “Gym can wait.”

Y/N smiled, warm. “I’m good. I’ve got a few things to finish up.”

Emily and Garcia hovered nearby, coats in hand — exchanging a glance that held more than a little protest.

“We could stay,” Garcia offered brightly. “Help you settle in — cupcakes and admin, a perfect pairing.”

Y/N laughed softly, shaking her head. “Go — really. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

Even Rossi, coming down the stairs from upstairs consults, paused with a glance toward her desk — a thoughtful nod.

And so, slowly, the bullpen began to empty — not with the usual rush of closing time, but with the unspoken warmth of a day well-spent, a missing piece restored.

And Spencer — he stayed, notebook still open before him. A file untouched beneath his hand.

But he wasn’t looking at the clock, nor at the quiet stacks of work still waiting. His gaze drifted — again and again — toward the far side of the bullpen. Toward her. He’d told himself it was to finish organizing some paperwork — but his stack of files remained exactly where it had been for the past hour. 

Y/N lingered after the others — a quiet, steady presence in the glowing hush of the near-empty bullpen. She moved with an easy rhythm — unpacking, resettling, reordering small pieces of her space that had been left behind. A drawer sliding open with a soft scrape. Papers shuffled into neat stacks. The quiet click of a pen against the rim of a ceramic mug.

The last spill of sunlight caught at her sleeves, gilding the fine movements of her hands, weaving a soft glow along the curve of her shoulder, the slope of her cheek.

And still — he stayed.

Spencer’s gaze drifted to the clock.

He could leave. He should leave. The hour had tipped toward evening — most of the building hushed now, shadows lengthening at the edges. But the thought of walking away — of leaving her to this space alone, on her first day back — pulled sharp beneath his ribs.

A quiet weight pressed into his chest — insistent.

So he hovered — notebook still open, the pen unmoving between his fingers, resting forgotten in the waning light.

Waiting.

Finally — after what felt to Spencer like an endless moment stretched thin with wanting — Y/N glanced up from her desk. A loose strand of hair had fallen near her temple; she brushed it back with an absent, graceful motion, fingertips trailing lightly against her cheek.

Her gaze lifted — slow, searching — and found him across the quiet bullpen.

Something in her expression softened — a warmth blooming there, quiet and sure.

Her smile unfurled — slow at first, as though drawn from somewhere deeper — the curve of her mouth lifting, high and soft at one corner, deepening into that familiar shape that never failed to undo him. A glimmer of mischief danced at the edges. The faintest hint of dimples appeared — fleeting, delicate — like a secret only just revealed. And then — her voice, low and warm, the words wrapped in that smile: “Are you waiting for me, Doctor Reid?”

The sound of it — the shape of her smile as she said it — struck him with such sudden force that he almost forgot to breathe.

Color rose to his ears — swift, helpless. He opened his mouth — faltered for half a second — then gave the smallest, surest nod.

“Yes.”

Her smile deepened — slow, knowing — the kind of smile that lived somewhere between affection and tease, the kind that could warm a man to his bones. Her dimples ghosted faintly at the corners, eyes bright beneath the soft spill of late afternoon light.

“Well,” she said — voice low, rich with quiet amusement — “if you help me put these away…” She tipped her head, letting the smallest pause hang in the air, just enough to draw him in. “… we’ll both get to leave faster. Sound fair?”

He was on his feet before thought could catch up with motion — breath quick in his chest.

“Fair,” he said — and even he could hear the faint, uneven edge in his voice.

Together — side by side now — they moved around her desk. Small, familiar motions — but softened somehow, slowed by something neither of them spoke aloud. They sorted through scattered files — fingers brushing the edges of well-thumbed pages. They slid books into place along low shelves, the gentle scrape of spines against wood the only sound between them.

Now and then — unintentional, but inevitable — their hands touched. Barely there at first — a passing graze of fingertips. Then again — the soft press of knuckles, warm skin meeting skin for a breath too long to be entirely accidental. Each contact sent a bright flicker through Spencer’s nerves — sharp, electric, as though every inch of him had tuned itself to her presence.

The quiet between them thrummed — not empty, not strained — but full, vibrant beneath the surface. Companionable. Steady. And beneath it all — something more.

When the last binder clicked softly into place on the shelf, Y/N exhaled a quiet breath — one of those small, wordless sounds that seemed to settle into the room like a finishing note. 

“Done,” she said, straightening with a little stretch — shoulders rolling back, arms loosening. She reached for her coat and bag, fingers brushing along the back of her chair as she gathered the last few things.

Spencer stood where he was — pulse thick in his throat, heart thudding hard enough that it seemed to echo in his ears.

The soft light had deepened around them now — long bands of gold stretching low across the bullpen, casting the floor in warm, drowsy glow.

She glanced at him — smile tugging faintly at her mouth. “Still keeping me company?” she teased gently, voice soft beneath the hush of the near-empty space.

He swallowed — words tangling.

“Of course,” he managed — and then, after a beat too long: “Didn’t want you to be the last one here.”

Her smile deepened, the kind that caught at the corners of her eyes. “Chivalrous,” she said — voice warm, amused. She slipped her coat on, the fabric falling clean against her frame, and adjusted the strap of her bag over one shoulder.

Spencer forced himself to breathe.

She moved toward the edge of the bullpen — glancing back once with a quiet tilt of her head. “Come on, Doctor,” she said lightly. “I’m officially calling it a day.”

His feet carried him before thought caught up — steps falling into an easy rhythm beside her as they crossed the room together. The hush of their movements echoed faintly in the open space — the last few murmurs from elsewhere in the building fading into quiet. 

At her side — so close now, every breath filled with her nearness — Spencer could feel the words pressing harder against his ribs. It had been building all day — rising with every glance, every soft word, every brush of her hand. He could feel it now — like a storm gathering just beneath his skin — sharp, bright, impossible to ignore.

And yet — beside him, Y/N seemed unaware — or if she noticed at all, only the faintest trace: the way his voice caught, the way his gaze drifted and returned too quickly.

She glanced up at him as they walked, brow lifting ever so slightly.

“You’re quiet,” she said softly — a question folded beneath the words.

He swallowed, pulse kicking hard.

“Just… tired,” he offered — voice thinner than he meant, pulse still racing beneath his skin.

She let the words drift for a beat, then smiled — soft, easy, gaze warm beneath the fall of her lashes.

“Yeah,” she murmured, voice low. “Me too.” A pause — her smile tilting slightly, something quieter beneath it. “But… I’m really glad to be back.”

The words settled into the air between them — warm, certain — and somehow it made the ache in Spencer’s chest bloom all the sharper.

They reached the elevator.

She pressed the call button — the soft chime rising in the quiet hallway, a bright sound against the hush.

Spencer’s breath caught — the weight of everything unsaid closing tight around him. He couldn’t hold it much longer.

The doors slid open — slow, smooth, with a soft mechanical sigh. They stepped inside, just the two of them now, the space small, quiet, close.

Spencer’s pulse pounded in his ears — hard, relentless, as though the very beat of his heart might give him away.

The words pressed higher in his throat — sharp, breathless — no longer some distant ache, but a rising tide he could barely contain.

Next breath. Next second.

He wouldn’t be able to hold them back.

The elevator doors closed — a hush of metal against metal — sealing them in.

The soft whir of machinery faded, leaving behind a silence so complete it seemed to thrum in the air between them.

They stood side by side — two familiar shapes cast against the brushed steel walls — the lines of their reflections blurred and mingling in the dim light.

The quiet pressed close — thicker with each passing second — as if the very air had shifted, grown heavier, charged with something unspoken.

Neither spoke.

Neither moved.

A breath held — stretched thin, trembling at the edges. Spencer’s throat worked. His chest rose, breath shallow and uneven. 

The words clawed their way higher — fierce, unstoppable — scraping at the back of his throat with each beat of his racing heart.

He could feel his hands trembling faintly at his sides — useless to stop it now.

He stared ahead — eyes fixed, jaw tight — knowing he was standing on the edge of something he could no longer step back from.

The ache had risen past longing, past reason — to the bright, unbearable verge of action.

Now, the thought pulsed through him, urgent, wild. Now, or not at all.

And then — impulse overtook thought.

Before he could second-guess himself — before logic could drag him back — Spencer moved.

Hand darting forward, fast, breathless — and pressed the small red button marked EMERGENCY STOP.

The elevator gave a soft shudder — a low, mechanical sigh — and halted mid-floor.

Stillness swept in — sudden, absolute.

Y/N blinked, the movement catching her off-guard, and turned toward him.

“Spencer?”

Her voice was quiet — touched with confusion, the faintest edge of surprise. Her brows drew in softly — a furrow between them, delicate and unguarded — as her gaze searched his face. Her lips parted — as though to ask, to steady the moment — but the words seemed to catch before they reached the air.

The shift in the room — in him — was too sharp, too immediate. Something was happening — something rising between them like a current — and she could feel it now.

The nerves in the air brushed against her skin — light, electric — pulling at her breath, at her heart.

He turned to face her fully — heart hammering so violently it felt as though it might tear free of his chest — nerves raw beneath skin that had gone too tight, too thin to hold any of it in.

Her brows were still faintly drawn — gaze searching, lips parted — the air between them charged and trembling.

“I can’t—”

His voice broke, the first word catching sharp against his throat.

He swallowed — breath ragged, chest rising too fast — tried again: “I can’t not say it anymore.”

Her eyes widened — something in them catching and deepening — but she said nothing. The moment held — bright, unbearable — as though the space itself had narrowed down to a single, burning point between them.

And then the words broke loose.

They came in a rush — raw, breathless, tumbling past restraint — too fast to stop now, too sharp to soften:

“I loved you before you left.”

His voice shook — low, frayed, as though dragged from the deepest part of him.

“I thought maybe— maybe if you were gone long enough, I’d move on. Forget. Or… or at least learn how to live with it.”

A harsh breath — head shaking once, fierce, broken.

“But I didn’t.”

Another breath — sharper now, ragged edges rising beneath the words: “I couldn’t.”

The confession twisted out of him — building, breaking: “I asked Garcia for updates every week — every single week — until even she started looking at me with pity.”

His hands had begun to shake — fingers flexing, useless at his sides.

“Every day, really— some days twice, three times— I just— I needed to know. I needed to know you were safe.”

A breathless laugh — hollow, aching:

“I made her hack into the Interpol Liaison logs. I knew what cities you were in even when I wasn’t supposed to. I memorized the dates of your deployments, your rotations. Every time you flew out — every time you landed — I knew.”

The words were tumbling faster now — heat rising in his face, in his chest — years of longing and restraint fracturing at the seams.

“I thought about you every morning,” he gasped, voice trembling. “Every night. Every time my phone buzzed I thought — maybe it’s her — maybe she’ll call—”

A sharp breath — and then the last broke from him, hoarse:

“I—”

But the words choked off, chest too tight to finish.

He stood trembling — gaze locked on hers — every muscle pulled taut, breath coming fast and uneven.

He had said it.

Finally.

All of it — ripped loose, bare and bleeding in the open space between them.

And Y/N —

She stared at him — lips parted, breath catching audibly now — as though the weight of what he’d given her had struck too deep to move. Something burned behind her eyes — deep, bright, unspoken — rising to the surface, fierce and fragile all at once.

The air between them cracked — the moment stretched to the breaking point — breathless, unbearable.

Her eyes — still locked on his — shone now, wide and burning, mouth parted on a breath that never quite formed a word.

And Spencer —

Something in him finally snapped.

A surge — a reckless, all-consuming need — rose up from somewhere deeper than thought, deeper than breath — a force that obliterated everything but the aching pull of her standing there before him.

He moved — fast, unstoppable — hands catching her shoulders, dragging her hard into him.

And then — his mouth was on hers.

No hesitation, no gentleness — just a crash of lips to lips, heat and breath and desperate, reckless want.

The force of it sent her stumbling back — but even as her spine hit the cool steel of the elevator wall, Spencer’s hand came up fast — cradling the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair to shield her from the impact — as though some fierce, protective part of him couldn’t bear for her to feel even the smallest hurt.

A faint gasp broke from her lips — not from pain, but from shock, from breathless surprise — from the wild, consuming heat of him.

And then — he was kissing her again — harder, deeper — no space, no air, nothing but this.

He swallowed the sound with his mouth — not daring to stop, not daring to let a single inch of space fall between them now that he had her.

His hands tangled in her hair — fingers twisting in the soft strands, pulling just enough to tip her face up beneath his — mouth slanting harder against hers, teeth grazing, lips parted wide.

Her hands came up in a rush — fisting in the front of his cardigan, dragging him closer — as though she would climb inside him if the laws of the world would only allow it.

Breath collided — hot, uneven, hungry — between kisses that deepened with every ragged pull.

Her lips — soft, swollen, trembling beneath his — moved with him, against him — gasps breaking loose only to be caught again, swallowed whole.

Their noses brushed — the angle of her jaw sharp beneath his palm, the shape of her mouth opening wider for him, breath shaking between every frantic meeting of lips and tongue.

Teeth caught — hers sinking sharply into the soft swell of his lower lip — not enough to break skin, but enough to tear a low, wrecked sound from deep in his chest.

A sound he didn’t know he could make — half gasp, half growl — ruined, desperate.

And then he was gone.

A surge of heat shot through him — blinding, primal — and in the next heartbeat, he slammed her harder against the wall — body pinning hers in full, no space left between them, the sheer force of it dragging a sharp gasp from her mouth.

But not pain — never pain — only shock, only wild, breathless want.

And he swallowed it — devoured the sound with a bruising kiss, lips crashing to hers again, open and hungry and without mercy.

The heat between them flared — burning now — a helpless, relentless tide.

His hands slid down — hard and possessive — gripping her waist, her hips, fingers digging in tight enough that he could feel the shape of her bones beneath the fabric.

Tighter — closer — more.

If he could have dragged her through the wall, he would have — anything to close the impossible ache of distance that still lived inside him.

She was gasping now — broken, high little sounds spilling between them — breath catching in her throat as her fingers clawed into his hair, fists tightening until the roots burned.

Every pull, every desperate grip only feeding the fire in him — pulling a fresh, wrecked sound from his throat.

Her head tipped back, mouth opening wider beneath his — trembling, hungry — letting him kiss her deeper, harder, until he was half-mad with the feel of her lips, her teeth, the breath she couldn’t catch.

“Spencer—”

The sound of his name — wrecked, high, barely shaped — shattered what little remained of his restraint.

He caught it with his mouth — crushed it — swallowing her voice in a kiss so deep, so savage it stole what little air remained between them.

Tongue sliding against hers — breath ragged — teeth scraping — hands everywhere now, sliding up, curling into her back, gripping her shoulder, burying again in her hair — anchoring her to him as though the sheer force of need alone might collapse the years they’d spent apart.

Their noses bumped, dragged sideways, breaths tearing loose, uneven and wild —

More.

He couldn’t stop.

He wouldn’t stop — not until he’d kissed her so deeply, so completely that the ache in his chest finally broke apart beneath it.

Not until she was gasping against his mouth — trembling in his arms — her nails dragging down the back of his neck with helpless, reckless need —

Not until there was nothing left of either of them but this — lips and teeth and breath and years of longing, burning wild and bright between the steel walls of the elevator.

Time fractured — the small space between them burning, pulsing with a heat neither could withstand.

It wasn’t a kiss.

It was everything.

Every unspoken word. Every sleepless night. Every breathless moment spent wanting and waiting and knowing they could not have — until now.

Now, the dam had broken. And there was no going back.

When the kiss finally broke — if it could even be called a break — it wasn’t by choice.

It was because neither of them could breathe.

Because lungs burned and chests heaved and their bodies trembled so violently it was a wonder they were still standing.

Spencer’s forehead dropped to hers — too dizzy to hold himself upright — breath tearing ragged from his throat.

Her hands were still tangled in his hair — trembling, clutching — and her face, flushed and wet, tilted helplessly up to his.

They were both shaking — wrecked — skin damp with sweat, tears mingled where cheeks brushed, lips swollen and raw from the sheer violence of what had just passed between them.

Neither could move.

Neither could speak.

They stood there — locked against the cool steel of the elevator wall — heartbeats crashing wildly in their chests, breath gasping against each other’s skin.

Spencer’s hands were splayed against her back — fists still curled in her top, holding on as though if he let go for even a second, the world itself might split apart beneath them.

Her breath hitched — a high, shaking sound that caught in her throat.

Slowly — slowly — she dragged in a trembling gasp of air.

And then — voice so faint it barely rose above a whisper, broken and wrecked in the quiet space —

“Maybe…”

Another breath — another tremble — her cheek brushing against his, damp with tears, mouth still parted, lips flushed and swollen beneath the faintest catch of a breath.

“… maybe we should… get out of here…”

A soft, dazed sound slipped from her throat — a ghost of a laugh, breathless, half-wrecked —

“… before Garcia starts wondering why we’ve been stuck for twenty minutes.”

The words barely reached him — muffled, distant — lost in the blood still roaring in his ears, in the breath he couldn’t catch, in the wild rush still hammering through his chest.

For a moment he could only stare — blinking, dazed, heart crashing.

And then — the smallest breath of a laugh broke loose from him — sharp, wrecked, awed — as if he couldn’t quite believe any of this was real, couldn’t believe the feel of her still trembling beneath his hands.

The sound tangled with his next breath — jagged, uneven — as he leaned in again, lips brushing hers once more.

Not a kiss — not quite — just the barest press — soft, aching, impossibly full — as though he needed to feel her again, needed to be sure she was still there beneath him.

“I don’t care,” he whispered — voice hoarse, torn, shaking with the force of everything still rising in him.

And neither did she.

At last — with fingers that trembled faintly — Spencer reached out, releasing the small red button beneath his hand.

The elevator gave a soft jolt — a faint hum rising as the emergency stop disengaged.

The car began to descend once more — slow, smooth — but neither of them moved.

Not yet.

Spencer still stood close — chest barely lifting with shallow breath, hands resting at her waist, fingers splayed wide, reluctant to loosen their hold.

Y/N’s hands lingered in his hair — fingers soft now, slow, unhurried — as though neither of them could quite bear the thought of breaking the fragile space between them.

His forehead still leaned faintly against hers — breaths mingling in the small hush of the car, both of them flushed, damp with tears and sweat, trembling in the aftermath of something too large to name.

When he finally drew back — just barely, just enough to see her — his eyes were dark, soft, shining with a rawness she had never seen in him before.

Open — utterly unguarded.

Voice low, hoarse, still uneven:

“I missed you.”

The simple truth of it struck through her like a blade — sharp and bright, pulling a soft, helpless ache from her chest.

Her lips parted — breath catching — before her own voice broke free, quiet and full:

“I missed you, too.”

Spencer still hadn’t moved.

His hands remained at her waist — fingers curled tight, thumbs pressed deep into the sharp curve of her hip bones, as though if he loosened his grip by even a fraction she might simply slip away again.

She could feel it — the heat of him through the fabric, the strain in his hold — the faint tremor still running through his fingers.

A breathless sound caught in her throat — half a laugh, half a sigh — lips curving faintly despite the wreck of her heart.

And then — something shifted.

Spencer’s breath hitched — chest rising too fast — eyes flickering down to where his hands still gripped her. 

As though, in that moment, the full weight of what had just happened — the recklessness of it, the years of want breaking loose — crashed into him all at once.

The flush rose quick and high in his cheeks — the faintest spark of his old shyness rising beneath the wreckage of want.

Fingers trembling harder now, caught between holding and releasing, apology and need.

When he finally spoke — voice barely a rasp, breaking at the edges: “I don’t want to let go.”

She drew in a soft, uneven breath — heart thudding so hard it hurt. Her smile faltered — not fading, but shifting — something deeper flickering behind her eyes, pulling the breath from her lungs. Fingers still tangled in his hair, she leaned in just slightly — enough that her forehead brushed his again, lips near his ear.

“Then don’t,” she whispered — voice soft as breath, shaking with truth she couldn’t swallow.

For a moment — the smallest space of time — neither of them moved.

His hands remained tight at her hips — knuckles white — her body held fast against him, the tremble in his fingers betraying just how much he was still drowning in it.

Her breath broke against his neck — warm, damp, trembling.

And still — no part of him wanted to let go.

Not when it had taken this long.

Not after what had just passed between them.

The air hummed with it — that fragile, golden hush — both of them caught, undone, too lost in the aftermath to break away.

The soft chime broke through the quiet — a bright, sharp sound — followed by the slow, mechanical hiss of the elevator doors sliding open.

Cooler air brushed in — a sudden shift, a reminder of the world waiting just beyond.

Both of them blinked — as though surfacing from somewhere too deep, too far beneath the moment.

Spencer’s hands loosened at her hips — reluctantly, fingers still trembling.

Y/N let out a breathless little laugh — half dazed, half bright — voice low and warm against his ear.

“Well,” she murmured, lashes lifting as she glanced toward the open doors, “I guess we can’t exactly live in here.”

That tugged a rough, unsteady breath from his chest — something between a laugh and a groan, eyes dragging over her face like he couldn’t quite stop.

“I wouldn’t mind,” he managed — voice still wrecked, hoarse — but the faintest curve pulled at the corner of his mouth.

She grinned — still breathless, still flushed — one brow lifting, teasing soft and easy between them again.

“You’re going to get me into trouble, Doctor Reid,” she whispered, fingers brushing lightly against his chest as she eased back a fraction. “And it’s only my first day back.”

He huffed a quiet laugh — wrecked, bright-eyed — and stepped with her toward the open doors.

Together — breathless, still too close — they finally stepped out into the hall.

The world beyond the elevator was quiet — hushed, late — the light cooler here, shadows long against the floor.

But something had shifted between them — something that could never be pulled back now.

Spencer’s hand hovered at her lower back as they walked — not quite touching, but near enough that the heat of it ghosted against her spine.

Y/N glanced at him — lips curved, eyes still bright with everything unspoken.

“You know,” she said — voice low, teasing — “if anyone saw us right now…”

She trailed off — the grin in her voice unmistakable.

Spencer huffed a breath — half a laugh, half a groan — hand finally giving in, fingers brushing soft against the small of her back.

“Then I guess,” he murmured — eyes catching hers, dark and soft and wrecked — “they’d finally know.”

Her heart flipped — sharp and warm.

The teasing faltered, just for a breath — replaced by something deeper, something older and more certain.

She smiled — slow, bright — and let her hand slip into his, fingers twining there like it had always belonged.

They walked in silence for a few steps — breath still too fast, skin still tingling — neither quite ready to let the moment fade.

Then — quiet, low, voice still rough from everything he couldn’t say — Spencer spoke:

“Are you hungry?”

She looked at him — brows lifting faintly — that familiar spark rising in her gaze.

“Starving,” she whispered.

His mouth curved — soft, wrecked, utterly undone.

“Come over,” he said — no hesitation, no fear now. Just truth. Just wanting. “I’ll make something.”

Her fingers tightened in his — smile deepening — voice warm as the new light between them.

“Okay,” she said.

And together — hand in hand — they kept walking down the quiet hall, toward whatever waited next.

[whimsyfinny]

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Charlie discovers the Winchester boys to be struggling with keeping the bunker tidy, looking after themselves and being able to do their job simultaneously. Luckily she has a friend who’s from a Hunter family that is in need of work and can help them with research. Or so she thought that’s what her job would be. When Dean sees your more domesticated side, his head won’t stop swimming with all the wrong ideas.

Slow burn, enemies to lovers, smut

Warnings: SMUT, the forbidden quickie

Chapter Word Count: 3548

—-MDNI—-

A/N: ahhhhhhhh I finally wrote some spice! Sorry it took a while. This is a little tame I guess but we can work up to the extra lewd stuff

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Please read the below first:

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

I’m Not Your F*cking Maid

Chapter 6

The following day rolled around quickly and before we knew it there was only an hour remaining until the auction house charity event. The disturbing events of yesterday were pushed to the back of my mind, the boys respecting my wishes on not wanting to talk about it. Sam told us over breakfast that he’d managed to access the auction house database and add our names to the guest list for the party, making it easy for us to attend without getting caught out as uninvited visitors. Now back in my room, I was rummaging through my duffel and pulling out my evening attire: a long black dress made of soft satin that had a slit up to the hip on one side. The neckline was a deep v-plunge and the dress was entirely backless.

“I guess no bra for me tonight then,” I mumbled to myself, also pulling out a clean pair of black lace panties and a pair of closed toe, VERY high black satin heels that had a neat little buckle on the ankle strap. I was already showered and my makeup was already done so I dropped my towel and slipped into the dress, pulling the thin straps over my shoulders. I followed by pulling on my panties, stretching the lace over my hips so it wasn’t visible through the slit in the dress. If you didn’t know any better, it would look like I wasn’t wearing anything at all. I sat on the edge of the bed and put on the heels, securing them in place before standing up and doing a few practice laps of the room - wearing shoes this high was not a common occurrence for me. I finished up by dusting my skin with the same perfume I wore yesterday, breathing in the pleasant smell before tucking the bottle along with my rouge lipstick into my little black clutch. I fussed over myself in the mirror for a few minutes when I heard a knock at the door. Pacing over I flung it open to greet the Winchester boys, and when I did I couldn’t help but do a double take over the oldest brother. I hated to admit it but he looked good. REALLY good. He was dressed head to toe in black: a slim fitted suit, shirt and tie, all of which seemed to flick something on in my brain. His suit jacket hung open and beneath it the shirt was clinging to his well defined torso, the top two buttons straining a little.

“You scrub up well, Dean,” I said to him, trying to sound pleasantly surprised. Instead, I think I sounded incredibly flirtatious. Dean didn’t seem to notice though as I watched his jaw slacken and his eyes flit over my body.

���Uhhh-um yeah, thanks,” he said, clearing his throat a little as he stepped aside to let me out.

“You look great, (Y/n),” Sam said, making such intense eye contact with me like he didn’t know where else to look, his cheeks glowing a little.

“Thanks Sam,” I smiled up at him before locking the motel room door and trying to ignore the fact that Dean didn’t say anything. Back to being an ass I see.

“So (Y/n), you’re with Dean. It should be pretty simple: get in, get the hair pain, get out. With that many people at the event, we don’t want to risk anyone getting hurt so I'll be ready and waiting outside with everything we need to destroy it and put the ghost to rest,” Sam briefed us before carrying on, “I’ll head back to our room to get everything and I’ll meet you there - you guys get going,” he nodded his head to Deans car which was parked out front. Dean said a quick farewell and headed out and I did the same, giving Sam a wave as he turned to leave.

I climbed into the front of the Impala, running my hands over the plush leather seat.

“You really do have great taste in cars Dean,” I said, looking around at the immaculate interior. He hummed in agreement, putting his arm over the back of my seat as he reversed out of the parking spot. Those top two buttons on his shirt were not going to last all night. I crossed my legs, getting comfortable for the short journey into town - the satin of my dress falling open and completely exposing my thigh to Dean. I watched him take his eyes off the road and fixate on my bare skin, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel. Returning his eyes to the road I saw his chest rise as he took a deep breath, a small but deep groan emitting from his chest.

“You ok?” I asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“I’m fine,” he rasped.

“Ok… you’re acting strange though,” I said, leaning on the passenger side door to watch the street lamps turn on.

“Can you blame me?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

There was a few seconds of silence before he flicked on his cassette player and classic rock filled the car, bringing a smile to my ruby lips.

“Good taste in music too? I’ll be damned, you’ve got more of a personality than I thought.”

He scoffed a little before smirking, “there’s more to me than meets the eye sweetheart.” He looked over at me, green eyes piercing into mine with such intensity I suddenly felt a little warm. I looked away, quickly counting my lucky stars when I noticed we’d arrived.

Dean parked up and I reached for the door, however Dean stopped me from opening it.

“Wait,” his tone was authoritative as he reached a hand out to stop me, his rough fingers lightly grazing the soft skin of my thigh. Before I could even respond, he’d hopped out, slamming his door shut before striding around the front of the car to open mine for me. He held his hand out, which I grasped delicately and he pulled me to my feet.

“What was that for?” I asked, puzzled as he closed the passenger side door behind me.

“Just trying to keep up appearances for this shit-show,” he stated bluntly before he walked off ahead of me towards the front door whilst he left me to navigate the uneven cobbles in these death-trap shoes.

“Jerk,” I muttered under my breath, but he must’ve heard me because he turned around, sighed and held out his arm for me to take.

“Just ask if you need help,” he leaned in and said quietly, his face close enough that I could feel his breath on my skin. I sucked in a breath, which was a mistake as he smelt positively divine. He was filling my senses and I didn’t want him to.

We made it into the building with no trouble at all thanks to Sam’s hard work. The inside of the auction house was a grand spectacle indeed; with high ceilings, a chandelier made up of thousands of tiny pieces of crystal and two symmetrical mahogany staircases at the end of the entrance hall. It was busy, lots of people in expensive attire milling about and drinking equally expensive sparkly wine.

“Shall we get some champagne?” I turned and asked Dean, who chuckled slightly.

“You’re already more fun than Sam,” he said before whisking two flute glasses off a passing waiter and handing me one. We chinked glasses, laughing a little at how awkward all of this pomp and ceremony was for us before we both downed the expensive alcohol like shots. Dean winced slightly, handing his now empty flute back to the same waiter who gave him a concerned look.

“Aw damn, those bubbles - that shits wrong.”

“That’s because you’re supposed to sip it,” I laughed at him, placing my empty glass on an old polished oak sideboard.

“Then why did you neck it too if you knew?” He asked, furrowing his eyebrows at me. I shrugged.

“To be honest I don’t know - I guess I wanted to lighten the old-money mood in here.” He nodded, seeming to understand where I was coming from. After that fiasco we made our way towards the immense curved staircases at the end of the room, Deans hand occasionally touching my exposed back as he guided me in front of him, making me shiver involuntarily. We ascended, making our way up and past people who were at the top of the stairs, idly chatting and leaning on the bannister - not paying us any mind as we turned down a quiet corridor. We walked quietly, the hum of chatting remaining behind us as we made our way down the dim corridor, looking out for the room number Sam had given us.

“Room 19, room 19, room 19…” I chanted to myself searching every door until we found the right one. Coming to a stop, Dean quickly knelt down and pulled a lockpick from his pocket. I watched in fascination as he inserted the device, ever so gently manoeuvring it with a look of pure concentration on his face. I couldn’t stop myself from looking over at him whilst he was unaware; looking at those focused and hooded dark green eyes, slightly parted lips that he wet with his tongue and large muscled shoulders that were almost as wide as the doorway. I didn’t want to admit it, but God damn he was attractive. There was a click and he stood up quickly, pocketing the lockpick and opening the door, hurrying me inside. I walked gingerly into the room which looked like a mixture between a study and a museum. There were large bookcases spanning the walls, sideboards boasting an array of intriguing items, all contained in secure glass cabinets, and finally a large leather-topped mahogany desk in the centre of the room. This place smelt old.

I heard Dean close the door behind him as he paced in after me, immediately scanning the room.

“Right,” he said, his tone stern and authoritative, “you take that side and I’ll take this side.” I nodded, immediately scouring every surface for our haunted item.

We must’ve been looking for around ten minutes when Dean called me over.

“Do you think that’s it?” He almost whispered, pointing to an item that I would definitely have described as a jade hairpin.

“Yup,” I whispered back, leaning slightly closer to him so I could get a better look. I felt him draw a sharp breath in before sighing slightly. “Can you pick this lock?” I asked, ignoring his antics and sticking to the business at hand.

“Yeah give me a second and I’ll get it open,” he stepped in front of me. Not wanting to get in his way, I walked into the centre of the room to where the desk was and leant against it, looking around at all of the bizarre items. Surely there are some other haunted things in here other than what we came for. My eyes eventually landed on an old gramophone.

“Oh that bitch is definitely haunted,” I mumbled to myself right as I heard Dean pop the lock on the glass cabinet. I watched as he wrapped the hairpin in a square of fabric before shoving it into his pocket and clicking the cabinet closed.

“Mission complete,” he said, a slight grin on his lips as he walked to stand in front of me. That grin fell from his face though when suddenly there were voices outside the door and keys rattling in the lock. We hadn’t planned for this. He looked at me in a panic.

“Kiss me,” I blurted.

“What?”

“I have a plan: Dean just fucking kiss m-” it was like I didn’t have to tell him twice before he had a hand in my hair and his lips were on mine. My heart started pounding and his mouth was hot against my cool skin. I hummed, sliding my fingers up his chest to grip the lapels on his jacket, pulling him further in towards me. Before I could get sucked into whatever it was that I was feeling, the study door flew open and two older gentlemen in brown tweed suits walked in, stopping in their tracks at the sight of us.

“Good heavens! What are you doing in here?” One of them exclaimed. Dean turned his head to look at the men, a smirk on his face and I couldn’t help but blush furiously at the sight of my lipstick that was now smeared on the corner of his lips.

“So sorry gentlemen, the door was unlocked so we just let ourselves in. I hope you don’t mind…” I watched, my eyes widening a little as he lifted his jacket slightly, showing the gun that was tucked into his belt. The men’s eyes also widened and they backed up towards the door.

“Yes, yes! Of course you did! Please, take your time. Just…” the man paused, his eyes darting to the precious items on his desk, “please try not to make a mess - it’s all I ask.” And with that they both left as quickly as they arrived, closing the door behind them. I let out a sigh of relief, looking up at Dean.

“Thank fuck… Dean I’m so sor-” I didn’t have a chance to think as Deans mouth was back on mine; rough and needy. I sat in shock for a second before being pulled back to reality when Dean held the side of my face, his fingers sliding up to tangle with my hair. I couldn’t stop myself from kissing him back, my mind racing and going blank simultaneously. His free hand ghosted up my exposed leg, touching so gently I could barely feel him. He soon decided though that gentle wasn’t working for him, and he gripped my thigh, his fingers digging into my soft flesh and making me gasp - his hands on my body were already working their magic as I couldn’t stop his name from leaving my lips.

“Dean…” I moaned. I can’t believe it - I had actually moaned his fucking name. He groaned into my mouth, obviously liking the sound of his name rolling off my tongue. Tearing his hand from my hair and gripping my other thigh, without warning and with rushed movements, he lifted me with ease so I was sat atop the desk.

“Wrap your legs around me darlin,” he said with a deep lustful tone against my lips. I whimpered involuntarily as I did as he said. He pried his mouth from mine and started to kiss elsewhere; my cheek, behind my ear… my neck. I ran my hands over his shoulders and up the back of his neck, running my nails over his scalp and making him shiver. I gripped his hair and yanked, forcing his head up. I locked eyes with him, his eyes no longer that brilliant green but now blown and black with lust. My own eyes were probably no different. His gaze fluttered from my eyes to my lips, and before I let him kiss me again I leant forward and pressed my lips to his throat, my tongue on his skin. It was his turn to moan as I reached a hand down and traced a finger up the hard weapon growing in his pants. His large hands moving from my thighs to my ass, gripping tighter than ever before as I seemed to be pushing all the right buttons. He slid me to the edge of the desk so my lace-covered intimates were pressing right against him, friction and pleasure commencing. I pulled my lips from his throat before tugging his face down to mine, instigating the finale. I spoke breathlessly over his lips, already craving the taste of him again.

“Are you gonna fuck me or what, Winchester?”

Dean practically growled, frantically fumbling with moving my dress aside. He hooked a shaky but skilled finger into my underwear, trying to pull it aside but the elastic wouldn’t allow for it. I began to tremble as his digits kept ghosting over my most sensitive area. He soon gave up with his first plan, and his second plan made my eyes roll into the back of my head. Dean pulled a large hunting blade from inside his jacket and slid the flat side against my skin and up my thigh until it was under the lace fabric. The ice cold metal made me shiver before he swiftly sliced the blade up towards him, cutting my panties to shreds as he repeated the motion on the other side.

“Fuck that was hot,” I panted as he put the blade away and captured my lips again, running his tongue over mine. I gasped suddenly when he dipped a finger inside me, curling it and caressing that soft, sensual cushion that was hidden away. When I moaned, he added a second finger, leaning away from me slightly so he could see what a mess I was beneath him. After a few moments of utter bliss, he pulled his fingers out, sticking them straight in his mouth.

“You’re fucking delicious,” he groaned, standing up straight to shimmy out of his jacket. I leant forwards, grasping his belt buckle, undoing it and pulling down his zipper. Slowly I reached in and pulled him out of his boxers, his rock hard manhood hot and heavy in my palm. He closed his eyes as I ran my thumb over the tip, guiding my hand up and down, up and down, again and again until he grabbed my wrist.

“Let go so I can fuck you ‘til you can’t walk,” he practically growled, making me weak. I leant back on my palms, watching as he lined himself up and then disappeared inside me in one earth shattering motion. My eyes rolled back and my lips parted as I locked my ankles instinctively behind his back, my heels catching on the gun still tucked into his pants. He started to set a rhythm as he fucked me into the desk, the wooden structure sliding back with every thrust he made. He had both hands firmly planted on the desk beside me and I gripped his forearms tight, my head starting to spin from the overwhelming pleasure. It didn’t help that Deans head had dropped into the crook of my neck and his heavy breathing was like music to my ears. He kissed the skin there softly, drawing a moan from my lips with the sudden tenderness. The pounding was speeding up, and he suddenly wrapped an arm around my waist, desperately trying to get closer - to get deeper. The need for release was building and I’d lost control of my voice; Deans name tumbling from my lips like a prayer. I pressed his lips to mine feverishly, his breath ragged as he managed to pant out;

“Shit, (Y/n) I’m so close… I’m gonna need you to cum for me…”

I whimpered at the sound of my name on his breathless lips and he let go of my waist, placing his large palm on my stomach and sliding it down until his thumb connected with that bundle of nerves.

“Shit-Dean-,” whining against his mouth I started to feel the tension in the pit of my stomach build - the feeling of him pounding into me and stretching me more than ever before combined with his thumb on the magic button was a recipe for a quick release. And Dean knew that. He was fucking me so hard now that the sound of wet skin on skin echoed around the room and the banging of the desk could surely be heard from out in the corridor- maybe even downstairs. That knot was tightening, and tightening, and tightening until:

“Fuck- Dean I’m gonna cum!”

“Fuck,” was all he managed to groan before I shattered around him, that knot snapping and sending me into probably the best orgasm I’ve ever had. As I tensed up I pulled Dean over the edge with me and he buried his face into my neck, breathing heavily and cursing occasionally.

We stayed like that for a few moments, regaining some clarity and returning to earth. He took a few deep breaths before standing up and pulling out, tucking himself back into his pants and doing up his belt as his cum dripped down my thigh. He couldn't seem to look away, even when he reached for his jacket on the floor and put it back on.

“Stay there,” he said finally, disappearing behind some shelves for a second before returning with a box of tissues. He helped me clean myself up, tossing the tissues in the bin as we attempted to get rid of the evidence.

“Are you ok?” He asked sincerely, concern in his eyes as he offered me his hand. I smiled a little bashfully, placing my palm in his.

“I hate to admit it but I feel great.”

He helped me down off the table, placing a hand on my waist to help steady me on my still trembling legs. We both stood in a comfortable silence for a few moments before realisation hit us both and we looked at each other with wide eyes.

”Oh shit - Sam!”

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Chapter 7